


balance sundered

by nightbloomings



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dragon Age Big Bang, F/M, Post-Game, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:21:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 34,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbloomings/pseuds/nightbloomings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian has been tracking Anders' movements across Thedas since the events of Kirkwall a year prior, with the intention of seeking justice once settled in his new role as Prince. Now that time has come, and Anders has disappeared.</p><p>Without other options for aid, and with no idea where Anders may have turned, Sebastian goes to Ferelden to seek the help of Roslyn Cousland, Hero of Ferelden and Warden-Commander. Roslyn doesn't trust Sebastian or his motives for all they're worth, and she agrees to help him only as a means of seeing to Anders' safety. Their search takes them across Thedas, following Anders' trail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**_10 Drakonis, 9:38_ **

He pulls the collar of his cloak further up his neck until it reaches his chin. The wind is biting, bracing, and the rain helps matters none. He is tense and aware; he is always aware. It has been a full cycle through the calendar, Drakonis to Drakonis, but time affords him no room for error. There are those who thirst for his blood, who would see it spilled at their feet, and who would stop at little to see it done.

There is an irony to his life now, and it’s not lost on him. He has been hunted before—several times before—and, in the heady arrogance of his youth, he may have said it was always a dramatic matter of life or death. It may well have been, but he has sobered, and he knows that circumstances are different now. There is no time left for romanticised visions of self or purpose. Wolves are never far behind him; they are always only a matter of days from closing in on him. He knows this; he’s planned for it. These are not the same wolves that hunted him all those years ago. Now, they are far more dangerous, more inclined to see their justice done. _Their_ justice, he thinks bitterly, as he stalks onwards. _Their_ justice is oppression and violence and pain. He tried to show them his justice— _true_ justice—and the justice of all those countless others like him. But oppressors do not welcome dissension. No; there can be no accord, no compromise.

The oppressed will never know their freedom until they are given the means to take it by force. He knows what must be done; the means are within his grasp, and he will show them. Word will spread, as it has already begun to do, and change will emanate as a wave from the wreckage and the destruction, from every pile of rubble and cloud of ash left behind in their collective wake, until there is no place left for the oppressors and their adherents to cower and hide.

He walks on, as ever, but his back is a little straighter now, his shoulders a little less hunched. The rain continues to fall, and the wind continues to blow, but now the elements wash over him as a soothing balm, emboldening him, and bearing at his back to spur him forth. 


	2. Chapter 2

**_18 Drakonis, 9:37_ **

Of all the times that Sebastian had thought about his return to Starkhaven, and how it might occur, he had never considered it would come to pass as it did, exactly.

First, when his exile was still a force to be grappled with and railed against, he imagined riding through the city gates, high on his mount, those with well wishes and well-endowed bosoms dotted along the road to greet him. Later, sobered by the fates of those he had left behind, he imagined a cadre of guardsmen filing behind him, lent by the Kirkwall nobility. And even as the years wore on, still he held hope that there would be some degree of support for his claim to the throne. And yet, when he finally did return, he was alone, and though it was by his own volition, it wasn't his preference.

The difference was as stark to him as had been the Minanter River when he'd crested over the ridge that gave the first full view of Starkhaven. The river bisected the countryside on the distant horizon, expansive and intimidating even from where he had stood, and his breath had caught in his throat; though whether it had been in anticipation, reverence, or trepidation, he wasn't sure.

In the evening, he sat against the far wall of a small tavern on the cusp of quaint and squalid, a day’s ride outside the city. His armour had been removed, the gleaming white and gold tucked away in a saddle bag, leaving him in a leather tunic dark enough to aid the shadows in disguising his form, with his hood drawn up over his head so far that the shearling trim well obscured his face.  His head was bowed, eyes focusing on the slow dissipation of the froth at the brim of his tankard so that he might hear a little better. He strained to hear any mention of the false prince, Goren, but the name didn't cross the lips of any patrons within earshot.

His last correspondence with Flora Harimann had been nearly three years ago, and without any contacts remaining in Starkhaven, he knew little of the current state of the principality, and even less of the man ruling it. He anticipated that Goren had settled into the role that he was deceived into assuming; likely grown fat and indolent off the hard work of the populace, and thankful that so much time had passed since the betrayal that led him to the throne, obfuscating the legitimacy of his claim to it.

But Sebastian well knew that time does not heal all wounds, and he was hopeful that, were the people of Starkhaven aware that the true heir to the seat of the principality was not only alive, but also mere hours from their city gates, intent on claiming what was rightfully his, their support would readily be his. The legacy left by his grandfather was a gracious one, and not one that Goren was in any way equipped to uphold, and that reaffirmed Sebastian—at least, for as long as he was able to ignore his own uncertainties about his own aptitude to rule.

As it became clear that his attempt at reconnaissance would bear no fruit, he allowed himself to lean against the wall at his back. He kept his hood up and his head down, but he did reach for the tankard. Initially, he’d ordered it to not raise suspicion amongst the other patrons, but he found that he wanted to drink it. Beyond the occasional goblet of wine that his vows excepted, he'd not had alcohol since Captain Leland escorted him to Kirkwall, all those years ago, and yet he found it oddly comforting, sitting in the tavern. Nostalgic, almost. Though he didn't miss that life he’d led before, in the slightest. After the initial resentment, he'd felt ashamed, for the first years, but as time passed, as the Chantry grew to feel more like where he belonged, the guilt was worn away by prayer and reflection, and he had been able to contort his shame into something beneficial, a point of reference by which he could determine how far he’d come in retribution, and how far he still had to go.

He had left Kirkwall over a fortnight ago, after witnessing the massacre, after watching Hawke grant the apostate his freedom. He left on foot and walked an hour northwest before coming upon a small farm, occupied by an elderly couple. They had seen the explosion that had lit the sky red, and the smoke of the fires burning endless within the city wafted over their fields and through their windows. When he told them what had happened, the woman buried her face in her hands and wept openly; her husband shook his head, uttering a few rushed prayers under his breath. Sebastian had said nothing of his involvement with the Chantry, though he’d been sure they could see the discontent as it sat heavy across his features. He had paid them fifteen pieces of gold for the mare housed in the stable. It was too much, he knew; the horse was worth a third as much. She was old and underfed, but he needed to reach Starkhaven as quickly as possible. Travelling by foot would take too long, and he had little trust in hiring a wagon, given his profile and his destination. The coins were a pittance to him and he knew they’d do more good in the hands of those poor farmers than they would in the bottom of a pouch on his belt. The woman wept a little more, and Sebastian paused to recite two verses of the Canticle of Trials, their hushed voices following his unsteady one.

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_  
 _I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm._  
 _I shall endure.  
_ _What you have created, no one can tear asunder._

_Though all before me is shadow,_  
 _Yet shall the Maker be my guide._  
 _I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade._  
 _For there is no darkness in the Maker’s Light  
_ _And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost. ___

Now, it felt good to rest, even if his mind refused to slow. He knew his sleep would be fitful, despite the ale and the bed reserved upstairs. But the morning that waited on the other side of the long night would carry him into Starkhaven, finally, and that was as good a reason as any to breathe a little more easily.

The next day, Sebastian rode slowly towards Starkhaven. His eyes and ears were trained for furtive glances or signs of recognition. He was barely a man when he’d last set foot in the city, but the distinctive features of his line were not well-hidden; he bore the nose of his father and the voice of his grandfather. But, the men that guarded the city gates were young and inattentive, and he passed through without incident.

For all the years, the layout of the city hadn't changed at all, and instinct took over instantly. The alienage to the left, the poor quarters to the right, and the wide road leading to the main square in the centre of the city directly through the middle. He directed the mare right, keeping close to the wall. When he was a boy, there had been a small inn on the outer edge of the poor district. It had been popular with travellers passing through, but the locals tended to prefer the larger taverns closer to the market in the north end of the city. He soon reached the point where he must pull away from the cover of the wall, so he dismounted and led the mare by the reins. He had yet to spot anybody following him, but that wasn't enough to give him reason not to anticipate the possibility, so he weaved his way down alleys and between buildings as best he could.

The inn was still where he remembered it to be, though the name had changed from the Traveller's Rest to simply the Starkhaven Inn. He moved first to the rear of the property, and left the mare with a stable hand there, paying him two gold coins to stable her away from any other horses and to keep her presence as secret as possible. He’d have little use of the mare once he finally reached the seat of the principality, but anyone that may have watched his entrance to the city would have seen him atop her and he couldn’t risk his location being given away so easily. With the horse secured, he moved to the front of the inn. The innkeeper was a burly man, hard-faced and late into his years. But he didn't ask questions beyond whether Sebastian had the coin to cover the first night’s stay up front.

Sebastian's room faced northeast, and there was one small, clouded window. He jimmied it open and leant down on the sill. He could see most of the Chantry, its massive size dominating the horizon. The Minanter was hidden by rooftops, but he knew it was there, not far beyond the Chantry; and across the river stood Castle Vael. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, and whispered a prayer for those he’d lost; those he failed to protect.


	3. Chapter 3

**_23 Cloudreach, 9:38_ **

Roslyn turned the folded parchment over in her hands to examine the seal. It was large, nearly three fingers across, and heavy where it sat in the middle of the single-page letter. She recognised the imprint immediately: two griffons back to back, embossed in silver against the dark blue wax—that of the First Warden.

"Where did—?"

"Messenger," Varel answered, cutting her off. "Rapped against the door incessantly, claimed the letter need reach you urgently, and then was off. He disappeared almost instantly, nobody saw him approach or leave."

Roslyn's eyebrows furrowed. Communication from Weisshaupt was always urgent, but it also usually accompanied another Warden or two, in need of accommodation and food. She rooted a finger underneath the seal, carefully pulling it away from the parchment. The script was crisp, uniform and compact, and all three lines of it were entirely intimidating.

_Warden-Commander Cousland,_

_You are hereby summoned to present yourself at Weisshaupt Fortress. There is a matter of utmost importance that I must discuss with you. I trust you will treat this matter with due urgency, and discretion._

_First Commander Oberlitz_

"Bullocks."

Varel cleared his throat, and when Roslyn looked up she caught him covering the edge of a grin with his fist.

"Not terribly funny, Varel."

Varel shook his head, setting his jaw square. "No, Commander; of course not. What does it say?"

Roslyn sighed and let the parchment fall onto her desk as she leaned back in her chair. "I've been summoned."

"Urgently, I assume?"

"As fast one can move, from one end of Thedas to the other. Would be a lovely time for one of those bloody griffons, now."

"I'll see what I can do," Varel said, his voice dry.

Roslyn refolded the letter and tucked it into a pocket on her jacket. "I'll need to leave soon," she said, rising from her chair and moving around to the front of her desk.

"I'll inform Raddick now, Commander. Who else will you be bringing?"

"No need, Varel. Raddick will stay here, as my Second."

Varel shook his head. "I can't, in good conscience, let you take that trip alone, Commander."

"I won't be alone the entire way, just out of Amaranthine. I'll need to get to Highever in order to cross to the Free Marches as it is, so I’ll pay Fergus a visit and co-opt one of his men."

Varel arched a bushy silver eyebrow. "You would trust a soldier you don't know to escort you clean across Thedas, before you'd take one of your own Wardens?"

"He wouldn't be _escorting_ me, Varel; he'd be my guard. And yes, I would trust Fergus' men, though I don't believe trust has much to do with the circumstances—they serve my brother, and as such, myself."

"But surely Raddick is a better insurance against—"

"Travelling with an ordinary soldier will certainly draw much less attention than any number of Grey Wardens would. And, I'll likely be gone for months. I can't leave the Keep without a command for that long, and you, as my seneschal, ought to realise as much. Unless you'd care for the job, that is? Lead a charge against the next darkspawn horde that manages to find another hole to crawl out of?"

"Very well, Commander," Varel said. Roslyn waited for a sigh or a cleared throat, but neither came. "When will you be leaving, then?"

"Tomorrow, in the morning. Have Raddick meet me first thing after breakfast, and have a messenger brought in as soon as you can. I’ll need to get word to Fergus, and to Weisshaupt too, I suppose."

"Will that be all?"

Roslyn nodded, waving him off. He bowed slightly and then turned and left the study, closing the door behind him. As the latch clicked into place, Roslyn let out a deep sigh and leaned back against her desk.

She pulled the letter from her pocket and read over it again. She had realised almost instantly what Oberlitz would want to speak to her about. Anders' defection had been easy enough to keep quiet, given how short a time he had spent in Amaranthine. But word had travelled fast, through all of Thedas, after the explosion in Kirkwall. Surely the fact that the perpetrator was formerly a Warden, let alone an abomination—she hated to think of Anders by such terms, but she knew Oberlitz would view him as nothing less—had reached Weisshaupt. And surely, Oberlitz would want answers, to many questions; answers that Roslyn wasn't sure she was prepared to give.

* * *

"And you've no idea what could possibly necessitate a summons? Even Oberlitz isn't in the habit of calling in Wardens, unless it's critical."

Roslyn shrugged, shuffling through the documents strewn across her desk. She was looking for her last correspondence with the Warden-Commander in Orlais, but damned if she could find it. "Which must mean it's something critical, then."

She looked up then, to see Raddick staring back at her, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He wore a rather sceptical look on his face, which surprised her little; he was generally able to read past her fronts.

"Fine. You're Warden-Commander, and thus not required to divulge anything you don't wish to. But," he said, taking a step closer to Roslyn's desk, "if you've any suspicion that this could... end badly, I hope you'll be honest with me."

Roslyn bit out a curt laugh. "'End badly'? No need to be so cryptic, Raddick. For all you know, it could be a promotion of rank."

"Right. To the position of First Warden, I suppose. That’d be a treat."

"Speaking of..." She paused, finally locating the letter she'd been looking for, "you're going to stay here, and play Commander for a while."

Raddick's mouth fell open slightly. "I'm not— You're keeping me here?"

Roslyn nodded. "It will be at least a few months before I'm back, and with the way things have been along the northern coastline lately, I'll need someone here to mind that the Veil doesn't tear any further than it already has."

"Surely you're not planning to go alone, though?" Raddick moved forward and sat in one of the chairs across from Roslyn's desk. "Which other Wardens will you be bringing? Piers, I suppose, and Corine would be eager to join."

"Neither. None, actually. I'll be going through Highever first, and I'll borrow a guard from Fergus."

Raddick was quiet for a moment, his eyebrows drawn tight together in the middle. "That does make a certain amount of sense... Less conspicuous that way."

"There you have it," Roslyn said, smiling. "At least you came to it quicker than Varel. Beyond that, we need every available Warden here."

Raddick nodded. "It's been a strange few months."

Roslyn sighed, leaning forward on her elbows. "I don't know how they're related, but the destruction of the Chantry in Kirkwall seems to have torn a hole in the Veil as wide as Lake Calenhand is deep. And it won't be long before we see more of it here."

"I'll maintain the regular patrols along the coastline. Perhaps the demons will be polite enough to keep to the designated ports."

"Don't hope too heartily—Kirkwall isn't known for its good graces and kind manners, and I doubt its demons are much different. Avernus is aware, and has been sending updates with any major shifts he's detected."

Raddick wrinkled his nose at the mention of the old mage. "Now _that's_ a comfort."

"Well it's the best we can do for now, morally-devoid crackpot or no. Here," she said, passing the letter to him. He took it, and began to read. "Don't bother reading the whole thing; it's a lot of Orlesian fluff and nonsense for at least the first half. There have been uprisings in several Circles, and The Divine has an ear to the issue. Chantry business is of little concern to us, but I want you to keep in regular contact with Warden-Commander Routeau. It's not a terribly far stretch, from Kirkwall to the edges of Orlais, and any disturbances in the Veil in the one could easily spread to the other."


	4. Chapter 4

**_25 Cloudreach, 9:38_ **

The cliffs of Highever. They were unlike anything Sebastian had ever seen before; certainly enough to put the Wounded Coast to shame, at any rate. They towered over the narrow shore and modest harbour below, sharp edges and sheer drop-offs, near-white rock blending into the icy waters of the Waking Sea. It was a beautiful sight to be sure, but no less intimidating. He couldn't see it, but he knew Castle Cousland sat just beyond the ridge of those cliffs, and of the two, it wasn't the craggy heights that intimidated him most.

A year since Kirkwall, eleven months since his reclamation of Starkhaven, and nearly two since Anders was last seen. Tracking the apostate out of Kirkwall had been simple enough, as were most things when the right amount of coin was involved. For all his years in Kirkwall, Anders had made his presence well known, for better or worse; spurned and angry locals to point Sebastian's scouts in the right direction had been in surprising abundance, even despite Anders' one-month head start.

He had moved west first, weaving through the Planasene Forest to eventually reach Cumberland, according to the scouts' correspondence. There Anders waited, biding his time. Sebastian had been convinced that Anders meant to carry on east, working his way down to Val Royeaux, the White Spire, and the seat of the Divine Herself, through one means or another.

As he waited those few weeks for the next correspondence, he focused on all the possible scenarios that he thought could play out, should Anders try to replicate what occurred in Kirkwall, in Val Royeaux.

But instead of continuing west, as the scouts' latest letter had confirmed, Anders headed north, towards Nevarra. And that was where the trail died. Sebastian's scouts had last seen him in Nevarra City, but they'd lost sight of him sometime between sunset and sunrise one night. The scouts had combed the sparse forests that splintered away from the city and its surrounding farmsteads, and eventually the bogs and the marshes that fed off the Minanter. Sebastian knew that if Anders had reached the Minanter, it would be impossible to track him across the massive expanse of the river.

Before he had set off from Starkhaven, Sebastian had spent three nights hunched over a map of Thedas, trying to guess exactly in which direction the apostate might have turned. Nevarra was the centre of Thedas; Anders could have moved in any direction and would have found some place to hide. Picking one and sending a scout out after him would have been no more fruitful than looking for a viper in the grass. No; Sebastian needed help, _real_ help.

And so, he found himself winding slowly upwards, around the side of the cliff and away from the harbour, with Castle Cousland eventually coming into view when he reached the plateau.

Strangely, there were no guards along the approach to the castle. Sebastian had hoped to intercept someone, to send them off ahead and advise the Teyrn. As he came nearer the castle, he could see guards perched in the ramparts, but their bows remained slung around their backs—they simply stood, watching him as he approached. Finally, one moved to speak to another and the second guard disappeared into the castle. Unsure whether it was a good sign or a bad one, he slowed his horse to walk; he didn't want to reach a point where he was too near the castle, too close within arrow's range, to turn back safely.

A few minutes later, Sebastian saw the massive wooden doors at the front of the castle swing open, a short, round man emerging through them. He took a few steps forward, and then stood with his arms clasped firmly behind his back.

"State your business," the man said when Sebastian's horse finally reached him. He eyed Sebastian with scrutiny, his large bushy black eyebrows bunched forward to the middle of his face.

Sebastian cleared his throat. "I am Sebastian Vael, serah. Prince of Starkhaven," he said, bowing forward slightly. "I've come to seek the aid of—"

The man grunted, the second of his chins jostling slightly. "Long way away from home, aren't you? The Teyrn's not expecting any princelings, currently."

Sebastian ignored the diminutive. "I sent a letter. By pigeon post, nearly a fortnight ago."

"It seems it never came."

"Right. Well..." Sebastian frowned, though he didn't entirely trust the man. Who hadn't introduced himself, he noted; he assumed he must be the Teyrn's seneschal, given exalted tone to his voice. "Is there any chance that the Teyrn might be available? I really do need to speak with him."

The man stared up at Sebastian, his face bunched together but whether it was because he was suspicious or because of the sun in his eye, Sebastian couldn't be sure. "The Teyrn's a busy man," he said eventually.

Sebastian nodded, putting on as placating a smile as he could muster. "Certainly, I would expect no less. But I have come a long way, and I’m afraid it's a matter of great importance."

The man stared at Sebastian some more, his face still completely unreadable. Sebastian fought to keep his temper in check—it wouldn't do to get angry with the man, not when he was still currently at his mercy. He knew how to speak with men like this, but under normal circumstances, not when he was growing closer and closer to losing the chance of ever tracing Anders.

Sebastian was about to humour the man once more, when finally he heaved a sigh. "Wait here," he muttered, before turning towards the castle.

Sebastian let his shoulders relax in relief, as he watched the man disappear back through the castle doors. He dismounted his horse, shaking his legs out when he reached ground. No one came forward to take the horse from him, so he held onto the reins where he stood, waiting for the castle doors to open again.

He waited nearly a half hour before someone finally emerged. It was the short, snobby man again, but now he was accompanied by someone much taller, and Sebastian knew he had to be the Teyrn. Sebastian bowed forward as the men approached, though certainly not for the shorter man's benefit.

"Prince Vael, I'm told?"

The title was a good sign, Sebastian thought. "That I am. Teyrn Cousland?" Sebastian held a gloved hand out to him.

The Teyrn took it eagerly; his handshake was strong, confident. "Please, call me Fergus," he said, with an easy smile.

"Your seneschal informed me that you didn't receive the letter I had sent in advance of my arrival," Sebastian said, glancing down at the short man. "I'm sorry to have arrived unannounced like this."

Fergus looked over at his seneschal for a moment, then back to Sebastian. "Yes, Dennel mentioned... unfortunately, pigeons seem to have a habit of not finding their way to fair old Castle Cousland, somehow." He gave Sebastian a quick wink with the eye opposite Dennel.

Sebastian held back a laugh, and he felt another measure of uneasiness fall away. Fergus was obviously a congenial man, and, Sebastian hoped, even-tempered. He was quick to smile now, but Sebastian hadn't yet mentioned his reason for coming to Highever; Fergus' disposition towards him could yet change.

"Well. Why don't you come inside? You can tell me of your business in Highever over a drink or two."

Fergus turned and looked over his shoulder, motioning to a boy that stood to the left of the castle. The boy ran forward, adjusting the vest he wore as he did.

"Marcus, see to Prince Vael's horse, please. It's a long journey over the water from the Free Marches, and I suspect it wouldn't mind a bit of rest."

The boy nodded and reached for the reins as Sebastian held them out to him. "As you wish, Teyrn Cousland," he said, before leading the horse off.

Fergus turned to Sebastian and smiled, before sweeping a hand towards the castle. "Please."

* * *

"I'm afraid I haven't any scotch—I know that's the lifeblood of a Starker. We're more partial to brandy, down here."

Sebastian leaned back into the large, plush chair and took the crystal snifter that Fergus held out to him. "Not a problem, Fergus—thank you."

"As long as it does the trick, right?" Fergus fell into the chair next to Sebastian's. "Cheers," he said, holding his snifter out.

They toasted, both taking a quick sip of the tawny liquid at the same time.

"To your tastes, I hope."

"Of course," Sebastian replied, thankful for the warmth of the brandy as it slowly worked its way down his throat. "Very welcome after that crossing."

"I have to admit, I'm dreadfully curious as to what brings you down to Highever."

Sebastian let out a short laugh. "It's a rather long story."

"Then it's a good thing that I happen to have a lot of brandy."

"Well. You’ve no doubt heard of the... unrest, in Kirkwall."

"'Unrest'? You mean the massacre at the Chantry."

Sebastian nodded. "Yes, that."

"They say it was a crazed blood mage apostate."

"He was an apostate, yes. A blood mage? No. Crazed? I would be inclined to agree with that, though I suppose that depends on your own bias."

Fergus sipped his brandy, looking past Sebastian and into the fireplace. "They also say you were a friend of his," he said, the glow of the fire shifting across his features.

Sebastian's throat constricted and he tried to swallow around it. He wanted to drain the contents of his snifter in one pull, but refrained; he was afraid of seeming unsettled by Fergus' questions, which he was certainly entitled to have. "'Acquaintances' would be more accurate," he answered, finally. "I've never counted him amongst my friends. We both worked with a man called Hawke; he was—"

"I've heard that name, Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall, he's called. Hails from Lothering, in southern Ferelden, I believe?"

"Aye, he and his family escaped the Blight in 9:30."

"And how did the apostate lead you to this point?"

"I was once a Brother of the Chantry, in Kirkwall. The Grand Cleric was..." Sebastian cleared his throat. He hadn't yet been able to speak Elthina's name without emotion tingeing his voice. "She was a close friend."

"Ahh," Fergus said. "It’s personal."

Sebastian nodded slowly. "It is."

"And you would see justice done?"

"Hawke, he... he allowed Anders to walk free."

"Anders? That's what this apostate is called?" Fergus' eyebrows had raised, and his voice had a hint of incredulity to it. "I believe I now know why you're here, Sebastian."

Sebastian carefully watched Fergus' face for a sign of anger or distrust. "He was a Grey Warden, once, several years back."

"And my sister, the Warden-Commander—then, and now still."

"I had hoped she might be of assistance."

Fergus leaned back in his chair and tipped his snifter upright, emptying it. "I wouldn't speak for her, but I’d hazard to guess she hasn't spoken to Anders since he left Amaranthine."

Sebastian nodded. "That may well be the case, but as it stands, she is the only person I can think of who might be able to give me any insight to as to where he may have gone."

"It's been more than a year—how could you hope to locate him after so long? He could be clear to Seheron by now."

"I've had scouts after him for nine months, nearly. The last he was seen was early Drakonis, when he disappeared in Nevarra. I'm hopeful that it's not been so long that I wouldn't be able to catch up to him, if I set out soon."

"And what of Hawke? Or of someone else in Kirkwall? Surely someone from that part of Anders' past might be of more assistance."

"Hawke is out of the question. He and Anders were very close. I've never quite known the full extent of their relationship, but I do know that Hawke would sooner see me dead than help me to pick up Anders' trail. The others... Well. I wasn't close with much of anyone outside the Chantry, save for one of Hawke's other associates and I've lost contact with him. I wouldn't know where to start to look—he's left Kirkwall, I know that much. The way I left Kirkwall myself was a bit disgraceful, to be honest with you. I left in a fit of pique; I made promises to raze the city to the ground. Any of my former acquaintances that may have been somewhat kindly disposed to me likely won't be any longer, not after the way I left."

Sebastian heaved a deep sigh. He glanced down into his snifter, and swirled the brandy around twice before tipping it back and emptying it.

Fergus was quiet for a long moment, but Sebastian couldn’t be sure if it was to consider what he had just learned, or if it was out of a lack of what to say next.

"Right," Fergus said eventually. "Well, it's not my place to determine whether my sister will be willing to assist."

"Of course. My apologies if I went too far into detail."

"Not a worry."

"The Ferelden Wardens are based in Amaranthine, correct? I suppose I might find the Commander there?"

Fergus shook his head. "She's not in Amaranthine any longer. She's on her way here, actually."

Sebastian looked at Fergus with surprise. "She is?"

"It's not my place to state why, but she is. She ought to reach us by tomorrow evening, given nothing impedes her."

"Then I suppose I'll head into the village and find lodging for the night. If you might pass on the message to her that—"

"Nonsense!" Fergus said with a deep chuckle. "You'll stay here, of course—I dare not be the Cousland that sent the Prince of Starkhaven to stay in a draughty inn, when there are several unused chambers under his own roof."

"It's no trouble, really—I didn't come here to impose on you and... your family?"

"Yes, I've one of those—a wife and a daughter. They won't mind. In fact I dare say that Sofie will be rather thrilled to meet you. She's Orlesian, you see, so she collects the acquaintances of nobles from around Thedas as a hobby. She's not had a chance to add Starkhaven to the collection yet."

Sebastian laughed, feeling relaxed again by the return of Fergus' warm manner. "I would appreciate the hospitality, very much."'

"Of course. You'll stay with us for tonight, and tomorrow, and once you've had a chance to speak with Roslyn, you can move on whenever you see fit."

* * *

Later that night, after a lengthy dinner with Fergus and his wife, Sofie, full of easy conversation and earnest laughter, Fergus escorted Sebastian upstairs to the guest quarters. Fergus took Sebastian's pack from the attendant that had followed them, passing it to Sebastian with a clap on the shoulder and a wide grin.

"I trust you'll sleep well in here, Prince Vael, but should you require anything at all, please do not hesitate to ask for it."

"Thank you, Fergus, and Sebastian is suitable. I sleep easier most nights when I'm able to forget the title for a handful of hours, I find."

Fergus laughed. "I understand that, though thankfully not on the same scale," he said, moving back to the doorway. "Until tomorrow, then."

Sebastian nodded and said goodnight, closing the door after Fergus. His hand still on the latch, he heard Fergus' voice as he spoke to the attendant still in the corridor.

"Find a guard, and tell him to ride out in the direction of Amaranthine, urgently," Fergus said, his voice in a harsh whisper, though Sebastian was able to hear him clearly. "He's to intercept Roslyn and tell her that the Prince waits for her here. She is not to be caught unawares, under any circumstances; that guard won't be welcomed back unless he's delivered the message."

Sebastian's chest tightened as he listened to Fergus. He felt embarrassed, for trusting Fergus' friendly manner as readily as he had. It was foolish to expect that Fergus would welcome him so warmly, especially with no warning of his arrival. He felt his cheeks burn hot, though the shame quickly faded to anger. His first impulse was to go after Fergus, and then to leave Castle Cousland and seek out an inn, but after a moment, he realised that he held the advantage.

Now, he knew that Roslyn would be expecting him when she arrived, and that she would not think him aware of the fact. And when he met Fergus the next morning, he would know the man's impression of him, no longer hidden by the facade of a warm smile. As the last year in court in Starkhaven had taught him, knowing the true motivations of those one dealt with was crucial to negotiations, and mitigating what one may need to concede in the end.


	5. Chapter 5

**_26 Cloudreach, 9:38_ **

Roslyn arrived at the castle the following day, early in the evening. Sebastian and Fergus were sitting in the lounge, in the same seats as they'd been in the day before, drinking the same brandy.

Dennel  appeared in the doorway and loudly cleared his throat to draw Fergus' attention. "Warden-Commander Cousland has arrived, messere. She waits in the foyer."

Fergus nodded and drank the remaining brandy in his snifter. "Thank you, Dennel. Come, Sebastian, the Warden-Commander awaits," he said, pushing himself out of his chair.

Sebastian followed Fergus' lead, finishing his brandy and standing. "Our introduction can wait, Fergus. She's just arrived and I assume you two haven't seen each other in some time—I wouldn't want to impose on your reunion with my reason for being here." In truth, he didn't want to delay his meeting Roslyn any longer, but knowing that she had been alerted to the fact that he was waiting for her, he felt it best to hang back, so as not to seem overeager.

"Nonsense, it's not a trouble at all—the more the merrier, and all that."

Sebastian shook his head, offering Fergus a warm smile. "I insist. I’ll return to my chamber for the night, and Roslyn and I can meet tomorrow at some point, when it suits her."

Fergus shrugged and clapped a hand to Sebastian's shoulder. "Very well, if you insist. Dinner will be served shortly, would you take that in your chamber as well?"

"Aye, that would be fine."

"Then I’ll have a platter brought up to you soon enough."

Sebastian nodded and followed Fergus out of the lounge. As they passed into the foyer, he watched Fergus as he moved to pull Roslyn into a hug. Sebastian caught her eye over Fergus' shoulder, and he offered her a quick bow and a smile, before turning up the stairs to his left. He suspected she wasn't of the same ilk as most noblewomen that he tended to meet—given that she was more disposed towards swordplay and darkspawn than most—but he was rather sure that the same tactics for disarming the one could be used on the other; a little warmth and charm could go a long way.

* * *

The next morning, Sebastian sat in the dining hall, opposite Fergus' wife, Sofie. He had heard of the fate of the Cousland family, finding it remarkably similar to the fate of his own. Every member of the household slain, down to the last babe in arms—including his own young nephew, and Fergus' own young son. He hadn't broached the topic with Fergus in any degree of detail, not knowing how sensitive an issue it would still be, but he was cognisant of it.

"I have never been to Starkhaven, I fear. I have heard it is a beautiful place; so much green, and mountains too, I’m told."

Sebastian smiled. "Aye, aye. Starkhaven is all of those things. It's a cold place, most of the year, but the scenery makes up for that, as we see it."

Sofie was a charming woman, if young—he'd hazard to guess that there would be at least twelve or thirteen years difference in age between her and Fergus, but that was common practice amongst the Orlesian nobility and was of no surprise to Sebastian. And, with their daughter being just shy of four years, it meant Sofie's father hadn't dallied in introducing her and Fergus—which was also common in Orlais.

"Oh, I do hate cold weather though," Sofie replied, wrinkling her nose. "I was so afraid of the Ferelden weather when I first moved to Highever with Fergus; Val Royeaux is so lovely and warm, and even when it snows, the sun stays out. But Ferelden is always so dreary and wet. I was so thankful to find that Highever is unlike the rest of Ferelden."

Sebastian nodded and sipped his tea. He resisted the urge to crane his neck to look out into the corridor outside the dining hall, to watch for Roslyn. He was beginning to feel impatient; he'd been sitting in the dining hall long after the proper breakfast hour waiting for her to appear, but it was nearly midday and she was still yet to be seen.

He couldn't even be certain that she would be willing to help him, and that made him even more anxious to speak with her. If she refused, he wasn't sure what his next step would be, short of setting off for Nevarra himself. Time was running thin, and the thought of Anders being allowed to remain free, unpunished for the lives that he took so brutally... well, it was an unsettling one. The guilt that Sebastian felt was boring deeper and deeper into his core, and he needed to absolve it somehow. And he was sure that tracking down the apostate was the only way to achieve that absolution.

Sofie had begun to speak more of Orlais, of Val Royeaux and its many wonders. Sebastian only half-listened; he'd spent many days in Orlais over the course of his life, and was aware of its charms—and even more aware of its faults. And unless Sofie's chatter could give him insight as to where Anders may have been hiding, he couldn't be bothered to give her his full attention.

Finally, a half hour later, Roslyn passed into the dining hall. She was tall, which Sebastian had expected given Fergus' height. She was dressed simply, in boots, breeches and a tunic, unlike her sister in law, who was swathed in pale yellow silk and pearls. When Roslyn's eyes met Sebastian's, he smiled, hoping to ingratiate himself to her as much as possible, and he stood, offering a slight bow.

"You must be Prince Vael," she said flatly, moving further into the room and leaning down on the back of a chair at the end of the long table.

"I am. A pleasure to meet you, Warden-Commander." He didn't move forward to take her hand, as he'd normally have done—her body language was already rather tight, closed in on herself, and he knew she'd likely turn him down at any rate. "Please, call me Sebastian."

Roslyn nodded, holding Sebastian's eyes for a moment before looking over to Sofie, when a quick smile crossed her face. "Sofie, good morning."

" _Bonjour ma cherie_ , Roslyn. I hope you slept well? I honestly cannot fathom how you managed to stay up to such a late hour with Fergus last night, after your journey."

"It wasn't that late, really," Roslyn replied with a shrug. "I haven't seen Fergus in nearly a year; there was a lot to be said."

Sebastian noticed Roslyn's movements were nonchalant, but not quite easy. She wasn't stiff, but there was a certain guardedness to her stance, and to the way she smiled at Sofie, as if her jaw was too brittle to support a full smile.

Roslyn looked at Sebastian next, again meeting his eyes straight on but not saying anything right away. "I'm told you're here to see me, though I can't honestly imagine what I might be able to help you with."

Sebastian smiled. "It’s a long story, truth be told. Maybe if we could go somewhere to discuss, in private?"

He could see the frustration in Roslyn's face, but he had no way of knowing whether it was genuine, or if it was a tactic to dissuade him from pursuing the issue. He couldn’t fault her, regardless of whether it was the former or the latter—his presence in her family home was unannounced. He almost regretted that she had arrived in Highever a day after him, as he'd planned to speak with Fergus, retreat to an inn in town, and send word to Roslyn in Amaranthine before setting out to see her personally.

However, propriety did little to change the urgency of the situation. Within less than a fortnight, it would have been over two months since Anders had last been seen by Sebastian's scouts, and it would be at least a fortnight more before Sebastian could set out after him in earnest; personal connections to the disaster in Kirkwall aside, he had a duty to Starkhaven and her people, and if he was to head off into whichever direction in Thedas, he would need to see to their needs first.

"The courtyard," Roslyn finally said, gesturing out beyond the windows of the dining hall with her chin.

"Very well," Sebastian replied, rising from his chair. "Thank you, Warden-Commander." he turned to Sofie and reached for her hand, placing a brief kiss to the back of it. "And thank you, Lady Cousland, for entertaining me all morning."

Sofie gave a quick, surprised laugh, followed by a smile. Sebastian turned and caught the apex of Roslyn's rolled eyes just before she turned and walked out of the dining hall.

* * *

The courtyard at the rear of Castle Cousland was as expansive as Sebastian would have expected, extending beyond the outermost castle walls by nearly half the castle's width on either side. It butted up against cliffs overlooking the Waking Sea, with a low, well-maintained stone wall separating the pale green grass from the shear drop off.

Summerday was near, only a few days away, and the slow breeze was warm, with a briny tinge as it blew up from the water below. The sky was perfectly clear, and Sebastian strained to see the coast of the Free Marches opposite the sea, but was unable to make out anything of significance.

No matter; whether he could plainly see Kirkwall or not, he could imagine what the skyline would look like, now. The Chantry had once dominated the horizon, towering high above the city and matched only by the spire of the Gallows. But that was before. Now, the Gallows would stand alone, accompanied only by a gaping hole where the Chantry had once stood, before it had crumbled in upon itself.

"I wondered if I might be able to see Kirkwall from here," Sebastian said over his shoulder, directed at the bench Roslyn sat upon. "Silly, now that I think of it—I crossed the Waking Sea just two days ago; it was deceptively long, but somehow I still thought it might be possible."

"The Waking Sea is massive, even where it narrows towards Highever; I doubt even seabirds can see clear across it."

Sebastian suppressed the sigh that brewed in his chest. He knew he'd need to call on his patience now, until he was able to convince Roslyn to assist him, so he turned the sigh into a deep, calming breath before turning to face her.

He took several steps towards her, but stopped a few feet away still. "I don't doubt that Fergus has already informed you of why I’m here, exactly." Roslyn crossed her arms tightly over her chest and tilted her head to the side to look up at him, but she didn't respond. "I also don't doubt that you were close with Anders, once—or maybe possibly still, I’ve no idea who he may have been in contact with over the time I’ve known him. But what he did in Kirkwall... well, it simply cannot go un—"

"I _was_ close with Anders," Roslyn bit out. "I _am_ close with him."

Sebastian nodded once. "So you've been in touch, recently?"

"I don't believe that's any of your business."

"No, and I’m sorry to have implied otherwise, it wasn't my intent. Perhaps... perhaps if I explained the nature of my time in Kirkwall?"

"Fergus already mentioned. You were a Brother in the Chantry there, and you and Anders both worked with Hawke."

"That’s true, yes. But there's somewhat more to it than that." Sebastian moved closer, towards the other end of the bench. He gestured to it. "May I?"

Roslyn looked at the empty space next to her and then nodded, shifting further over but not looking back up at him.

"I was exiled to Kirkwall, nearly twenty years ago." Sebastian noticed Roslyn's eyebrow quirk upwards slightly. "My family gave me over to the Chantry; my servitude there was meant to be insurance towards the (peaceful continuation) of my line. I wonder, had word of what happened to my family made across to Ferelden?" he asked, turning to face Roslyn and propping an elbow on the back of the bench.

Roslyn shook her head, keeping her eyes forward. "We’d a Blight to contend with."

Sebastian ignored the hot wave of disdain that coursed through his middle at Roslyn's insolence. He had to believe that she was being curt and prickly for a reason, maybe borne of distrust, and not simply out of malice. He had to believe it, not because he needed her to be a good person underneath the facade, but because it would be the only way he could keep his temper with her.

"True enough," he replied. "I won't go into the detail now, as it's not relevant to my reason for being here. Just know that, whatever you may think of the Chantry and its ideals, those who died at Anders hand that day were good people, and didn't deserve their fate."

Roslyn let out a sigh. "I’ve not much interest in your Andrastian guilt, messere Vael. There are two sides to every story, and I can clearly see which side you fall on."

"The deaths of innocent people have nothing to do with guilt, of which I have very little any longer, nor do they have anything to do with religious belief!" Sebastian barked. He couldn't help himself—the tone of Roslyn's voice alone was enough to send him to ire, let alone how dismissive she was being.

Roslyn turned her head to look at him then, her face flat but her eyes had softened somewhat. If it was conviction that she needed to feel compelled to listen to him more earnestly, than he was prepared to offer it.

"I apologise, I don't mean to grow angry... but this is personal to me, on a certain level."

Roslyn nodded. She shifted where she sat, facing her body towards him a little more. "So you're trying to track down Anders, for what he's done to the people of the Chantry." Her voice was even, and quiet enough that Sebastian had to strain a little to hear her. "But why do you think I’d be of any help?"

"You’re the last person I'm aware of who knew Anders in any sort of personal capacity. The acquaintances we shared in Kirkwall are all either loyal to him, hateful of me, or beyond my reach. All I ask of you is some input as to where he may have taken to."

"Hateful of you? I appreciate your honesty but that doesn't inspire much confidence."

"My motivations were..." Sebastian paused for a moment, as he tried to consider the best way to explain. "They were somewhat misunderstood, by the rest of Hawke’s companions. I don't mean to imply that I'm faultless, however; I made my distrust of Anders clear in those last weeks, and after the Chantry... Well. It was personal, and I made that rather evident."

Roslyn was quiet for a long while. It was difficult to sit with her in that way, and he was anxious to know what she was thinking over. He needed to be patient, he knew. He needed to allow her to come to the decision to help him—or to not help him—on her own time, and her own terms.

"I’m sorry Sebastian, but I simply cannot understand how someone like Anders could be capable of such a thing. I admit it's been a few years since I’ve heard from him, but his last letters didn't give the impression of a disturbed man. A passionate one, yes, but never the kind who would decide to destroy an entire Chantry."

"But you know, don't you? Of his... transformation?"

"If it's his merge with Justice that you refer to so vaguely, then yes, of course I'm aware. I don't see how that's relevant here."

Sebastian sighed. "It is relevant—very much. The spirit that lived inside Anders changed him; it warped his personality. He and I have had our differences from the moment we met. We were like oil and water. But in those earlier years, I admired the passion he held for his cause. I didn't disagree with him, though I did disagree with his tactics of persuasion. Regardless, the man who I met eight years ago is lost forever at the hands of that spirit."

Roslyn scoffed, shaking her head and looking away from Sebastian. "Justice was not some demon! He was benevolent. I find it difficult to believe you, to be honest; you didn't know Anders before he took on Justice. I’m willing to bet that your bias towards mages in general is playing a large part in this."

A pit of hot tension began to form deep in Sebastian's chest. He had always been short of temper, but the presumptions Roslyn was making about him and his motivations were affecting him especially quickly.

"With all due respect, Warden-Commander, you know very little of my 'bias' towards mages. I bear no ill will towards mages in any way, but Anders is no longer just a mage, or even just an apostate. He’s an abomination." He paused when Roslyn recoiled slightly, her eyes narrowing at him. "Pardon me for speaking plainly, but I’ve said nothing that isn't true—it's not a spirit of justice that walks with Anders now; it's a spirit of vengeance. Tell me, honestly, would you think the Justice you once knew capable of reconciling the deaths of so many innocents for the distant and unguaranteed benefit of others?"

Roslyn leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest, turning her eyes forward. She stared at the Waking Sea beyond the cliff for a few minutes, her mouth gradually turning into a frown. "I don't... I don't know," she said eventually, heaving a sigh.

"I understand that this sounds implausible to you, and you're right to say that I didn't know Anders, or Justice, as you did; that's very clear to me." Sebastian rose and turned to face Roslyn. "All I ask is that you take some time to consider what I've told you. Consider what you know to be factually correct: many innocent people died by Anders' hand, and as it stands, the crime is not absolved."

"Be that as it may, Prince Vael, you are not the authority to determine how, or even whether, Anders is to atone for it, and I'll not let you carry on as if you are."

Sebastian sighed. He knew he wasn't such an authority; Roslyn wasn't wrong. But he couldn't be sure that Anders would face justice if left to the proper system, and he couldn't allow the crime to go unpunished, and so he knew he needed to take the matter into his own hands. "Please, just think this over. I'll be in my chambers if you wish to speak again," he said, giving Roslyn a quick, shallow bow before heading back towards the castle.


	6. Chapter 6

**28 Cloudreach, 9:38**

Sebastian spent the better part of the next day trying to prevent himself from letting his anxiousness get the best of him. It had been less than a day since he and Roslyn had spoken, but he felt that time was running more and more thin as the hours passed. A lone man unencumbered could cover significant distances in a short span of time, and Sebastian feared that the longer he dallied in Highever, the further and further Anders would get.

By nightfall, it had come to pacing in front of the hearth in his room. His stomach grumbled, but he tried to tamp down on his hunger—it would be awkward, to sit and share a meal with Fergus now, and even more so if Roslyn would be present, given how terse their conversation had been the day before. All he wanted was for her to call for him, to tell him that she refused to help him so that he could set out for the harbour immediately before it grew too late in the night to travel.

An hour later, there was a knock on the door of his chamber, and before he could reach it, it opened to reveal Seneschal Dennel.

"The Warden-Commander requests your presence in the dining hall."

Sebastian cleared his throat, and he resisted the urge to stand up to full height over the smaller man. He’d grown used to the seneschal's apparent refusal to use titles, or even names, but the childish want to intimidate him still took Sebastian sometimes.

"Now, I presume? Rather than later?"

Dennel sneered, giving a short nod before turning away. "As quickly as a princeling can move, I believe she said."

"Very well," Sebastian muttered, closing the door after himself. He moved down the hallway, Dennel waddling on ahead.

When Sebastian reached the dining hall, Roslyn was sitting at the head of the large oak table. There were two plates set, one in front of her and the other at the chair to her left, with three large platters of food before them. Her eyes were on the archway when he appeared in it, though she did little to acknowledge his presence beyond giving him a curt nod.

She watched him as he moved through the room, taking the seat beside her. "Wine?" she asked once he'd pulled in his chair. She gave him a healthy pour when he nodded.

Sebastian glanced over at the platters of food. There was game of some sort on one, a selection of roast root vegetables on another, and several types of cheeses on the last. It was a bigger spread than he'd shared with Fergus and Sofie two nights before, but he wasn't swayed by it, regardless of how inviting it smelled. Wine and decadent meals were a tool for nobility, little more than the worms used as bait by a fisherman. He barely sipped the wine in his goblet once Roslyn had lifted her own to her lips, and he could see that she'd done the same.

"I’ve had some time to think on what we spoke of yesterday," she said a moment later, as she heaped vegetables onto her plate.

Sebastian didn't respond; he wanted her to lay out her decision for him uninterrupted by any of his input. Instead, he helped himself to some food and waited for her to continue.

"As I said, I find it difficult to reconcile what I know of Anders, and what you've told me. But I can also appreciate that time changes us all, and that, as close as I imagine he and I to still be, it's entirely likely that he neglected to convey every detail of his life in Kirkwall in his letters."

Sebastian nodded again and sipped at his wine, letting little more than a few drops past his lips. 

"I..." Roslyn paused, and when he looked up at her, her eyes were focusing on the food in front of her, but she made no move to eat it. "I don't trust you."

"I gathered as much," Sebastian replied flatly. 

Roslyn scoffed and cut off a piece of meat. "But I doubt I can be blamed for it," she said as she chewed.

"I suppose not, truthfully. You don't know me."

"No, I don't. And while I don't believe you have much of a reason to lie, per se, I also don't believe that you've told me everything without any bias whatsoever."

"Well, no, I would agree with that as well. Of course I have a bias in this situation; I’ve made that clear to you. I don't believe I’ve deceived—"

"And because I don't trust you," Roslyn said, interrupting Sebastian, "I will help you."

Sebastian froze mid-chew and stared at Roslyn. He'd known since their meeting yesterday that she didn't trust him, and he'd expected her to deny him.

"I will help you," she continued, "because I don't trust you to leave Anders to your mercy, whatever that mercy truthfully is."

Sebastian swallowed and quickly took a large sip of wine, suddenly not caring about maintaining an advantage. "I’m surprised."

Roslyn smirked. "I can see that," she said as she reached for her goblet.

"I sense, though, that there's something else. You’ve some conditions, I’d guess?"

"Of course. I can run through them now with you, if you'd like, but tell me—does it really matter what my conditions are?"

Sebastian laid his cutlery down along the edge of his plate, and then folded his arms on the table. "I’ve my limits."

"Mmm, right." Roslyn pushed her plate away slightly, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest. "If we happen to catch up to Anders, I speak with him first, alone, preferably before he even knows you're with me."

"That won't be a problem."

"Whatever he may tell me, I take as truth. His word over yours, unless it goes against something that has already been documented elsewhere."

"I understand you don't trust me, Warden-Commander, but with all due respect, you don't know the type of person Anders has become over the last years," Sebastian said, his brow furrowing. "He’s irrational and—"

"With all due respect," Roslyn interjected, "it's not only that I don't trust you, Sebastian, it's also that I don't trust your bias."

Sebastian drew in a deep, sharp breath, pushing away from where he leaned against the table, nearly ready to protest, but he stopped himself, his palms flat against the dark wood. It was minutiae at this point—small details that would likely be forgotten by the time Roslyn saw how erratic Anders had become. "Fine," he said finally.

"Good. Most importantly, Anders cannot die by your hand, or by your word." 

Sebastian's eyes flared but Roslyn held up a hand in front of him before he could speak. His mouth hung open but his eyes changed into something that was somewhere between shock and anger.

"I will not bend on this," Roslyn said, her voice almost at a shout. "I will not help you to locate Anders just to have him die at your behest as an act of revenge."

"Don’t you understand? The Grand Cleric is dead, because of some misplaced hatred and blame on that maleficarum's behalf!"

Roslyn arched a thick brow at Sebastian. "And you wonder why I question the role your bias plays in all of this," she said, shaking her head slightly.

"My bias would be what it is regardless of my stance on the Chantry."

"I doubt that very much. And to say nothing of your reaction to this request..."

"Fine! Fine..." Sebastian fell against the back of his chair, waving an arm in front of him. "This is all supposing that we locate him in the first place, and the longer we spend here arguing over eventualities, the less likely we are to be successful."

"Naturally." A small twitch appeared at the corner of Roslyn's mouth, as though her lips were about to pull into a smirk. She rose then, pushing her chair out behind her with the backs of her legs as she did. She moved away from the table and stood, looking at Sebastian expectantly. "There’s one more thing," she said. "I’ve been called to Weisshaupt, and that's my top priority still as Warden-Commander, so I will leave you at some point, regardless of whether Anders has been found, and you won't follow."

Sebastian pivoted and watched Roslyn as she moved behind his chair and towards the archway. "And where is Weisshaupt?"

Roslyn shook her head. "If you're not to follow, why would I tell you? It's north of here; far, far north. But not quite as far as Tevinter."

Sebastian fought back the impulse to roll his eyes at the way Roslyn seemed to be enjoying her upper hand. He would humour her, for the time being. Until they were across the Waking Sea and beyond the far edge of the Free Marches, he couldn't afford for her to change her mind. "Very well."

"Right," Roslyn said, her lips turning up into a false smile. "We’ll leave tomorrow. The ferries heading north don't depart until past mid-day, so get those few precious hours of sleep in comfort as you can, Prince Vael."

And then, she was gone. Through the archway and around the corner, and when Sebastian moved out after her, only a second or two later, she had already disappeared down a corridor.


	7. Chapter 7

**4 Bloomingtide, 9:38**

Sebastian and Roslyn reached Kirkwall after six days. It’d been a long, lonely trip, with Roslyn keeping to her quarters most days. The makeshift attempt at a Summerday festival held on the deck in the middle of the Waking Sea had been the only time Sebastian had seen her for more than a handful of minutes, aside from the few times they crossed paths in the mess. It’d given him a chance to consider their options, and to canvas other passengers on board for any possible sightings of Anders. Of course, it was fruitless; though most were merchants, most also rarely ventured past the borders of the Free Marches.

"Maker’s bloody bad breath…"

Sebastian turned to look at Roslyn, standing a few feet behind with her hands on her hips, face turned up towards the sheer cliff that towered over the docks, with Hightown perched above. He shook his head at her epithet, a small smile making its way across his lips. "It is quite the sight, isn’t it?"

Roslyn looked ahead at Sebastian, one eye squinting shut with the force of the sun. "It ruddy well sparkles."

"One of Kirkwall’s many, many charms, you’ll come to find. Come," he said, gesturing towards the archway that would lead them to Lowtown. "The coach services are at the northern end of Hightown."

"But there’s a coach stand right th—" 

"I should clarify: the legitimate coach services; not the ones run by ex-smugglers and bandits."

Sebastian continued walking and he heard Roslyn’s short jog as she caught up to him. She pulled up beside him, and he glanced over at her. Her face was forward, but her eyes were darting left to right; scanning, considering, evaluating. Highever and Amaranthine were harbour cities along the Waking Sea, but even Ferelden’s largest city of Denerim was a portion of the size and scale of Kirkwall. It would be a lot to take in for one who had never laid eyes on it before, but the full tour would need to be postponed for now.

They had to pass by the courtyard where the Chantry once stood, in order to reach the northern gate, and though he had passed through on his way out of the Free Marches over a fortnight before, the sight was no less jarring. He hadn't lingered then, finding it too difficult.

Quarrymen still worked to clear the rubble even now, over a year on, and it would likely be at least another year before any rebuilding could begin to take place. Great black scorch marks marred the pale, smooth stone paving, reaching out in every direction from what had been the epicentre of the blast. The smell of ash and smoke had lingered in the area for nearly six months after, and while the scent was gone now, a fine layer of white dust lay over everything in the courtyard, small clouds of it being kicked up whenever something disturbed it.

It was quiet, but an eerie sort of quiet; nothing at all like the reflective, peaceful calm that had filled the space a year before. Sebastian could hear Elthina's voice in his head, whispered and distant but present nonetheless. 

A small group of people stood nearby in the corner, some seated on a bench and others huddled together. One woman was openly weeping, and her soft sobs echoed out across the courtyard at sporadic intervals. It was a gentle sound, not harsh or wailing, but it still managed to pierce Sebastian’s armour and his skin, settling deep in his chest and unnerving him.

In the opposite corner, a clutch of Sisters stood together, heads bent in prayer. They wore robes of the colours of other Chantries, likely brought in to fill the void of benediction in the city. And they seemed to do it well, with a few people standing before them, heads also bent as they listened to the Sisters’ quiet voices.

Sebastian turned to Roslyn. Her mouth was drawn in a tight line, eyes wide. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest as if she wanted to fold in on herself. She must have sensed him looking at her, as she glanced up at him for a moment before her eyes fell quickly to the floor. 

"I need to stop here," he said, and she nodded but she kept her head down. "You can choose to wait here, perhaps over on one of the benches there to the left, or you can carry on and I’ll meet you at the northern gate."

Roslyn heaved a sigh, raising her head but not looking at Sebastian; her eyes were focused on the rubble. "I-I’ll wait."

Sebastian nodded once and then moved towards the group of mourners. He could tell nothing of their station from their appearance, if they were poor or wealthy, or even from Kirkwall proper, but he knew he could offer some degree of comfort somehow, whether by prayer or by donation.


	8. Chapter 8

**13 Bloomingtide, 9:38**

It had taken a full seven days to reach Starkhaven by coach. The snow that typically covered the pass that cut through the Vimmark Mountains had melted away, but the terrain was slick and sodden with run-off, causing the coach to become stuck more than a few times. Roslyn had found it miserable, and she was sure that she’d done her best to show it.

Of course, it wasn’t as though she wouldn’t need to be making the journey herself as it was, given her summons to Weisshaupt. The route would have been more direct, without the detour to Starkhaven, but truthfully, she was thankful for the company. She was still suspicious of Sebastian’s motivations; that a sitting prince would leave his hold in the hands of his seneschal for so long to hunt down one man did not settle well with her. Despite having not heard from Anders in a number of years, she still felt inclined to take his interests to heart, which seemed to be in direct conflict with Sebastian’s.

She had been close with Anders, in the relatively brief time they had spent together. He was a kind soul, if a bit mischievous, but nothing that she hadn’t encountered before either in Fergus or in Zevran, or even Alistair somewhat. What had drawn her to him immediately had been his outspoken nature on the treatment of mages. To be sure, it had been a selfish sort of thing, and a far cry from what she had come to learn he’d been involved with in Kirkwall more recently. But the principle was the same, and having seen what the Circles and Templars were capable of first-hand, it was hard to deny him his need to rebel against that.

Still though, she couldn’t shake the sight of the decimated Chantry in Kirkwall from her mind. The scorch marks unsettled her most, pitch black against the stone paving; they couldn’t merely be a matter of caked ash that could be scrubbed, or even magicked away. And while she had never seen the building before, she could imagine, given the size and the scale of the other surrounding buildings in Hightown, that it would have been massive. To think of the number of people that would likely have been inside, an hour or so after vespers…

It was hard to reconcile what she had seen in Kirkwall with what she knew of Anders. Whenever she had mentioned that, that the Anders she had known would never be capable of killing so many innocents, Sebastian had insisted that the man he sought now was not the man she had befriended. Even with his merge with Justice, the letters she received from Anders depicted a man who had found his passion in aiding the mages of Kirkwall—but in clandestine ways, subverting the system of oppression by the Templars, not by seeking an eye for an eye. What could he have hoped to achieve with what he did? There was no way that she could rationalise it, not without speaking to him first and learning of his motivations from his own mouth, rather than from someone like Sebastian.

Someone like Sebastian, whatever that meant. She was still not sure what to make of him, over a fortnight since their first meeting. He was calm, stoic—aside from when she had given her conditions for helping him. He’d given over to his temper then, raising his voice and going red in the face, but that had been the only time she’d seen him be anything other than composed.

It was a sign of purebred nobility, to be sure. She’d seen it her entire life in her own family, and in those that had come to visit. She knew to expect it, and how to read past it. She noticed how Sebastian’s eyebrows sat in a near-permanent furrow, how his shoulders never seemed to relax completely, how his jaw was always set firm. There were small glimpses of charm, now and then, when the muscle would twitch the corner of his mouth, or the skin would crinkle at the corner of his eye, in replacement of a proper smile. And it was that guardedness that made her inclined to keep him at arm’s length. It was hard to guess at what exactly the façade was hiding, but that was inconsequential. The fact remained that he was a probable danger to Anders.

Sebastian rode ahead of her now, by two or three lengths. He had set that pace almost immediately after setting out that morning from Starkhaven, and she knew he maintained it on purpose because she had twice tried to close the distance, to see how he would react, and both times he spurred his horse on a little faster, to move a little further away.

It didn’t offend her; riding in solitude along the winding bank of the Minanter suited her fine. But it was curious, nonetheless. Truthfully, she knew she had been cold to him, and probably exceedingly so, and it seemed he saw no reason to bother with idle conversation.

And that suited her too. She didn’t care to know more about him; she knew what she needed to. He was a man of deep faith, and thus likely one with blind belief in the Chantry; he was a man of nobility, and thus likely as clever and conniving as any blue blooded Orlesian. And overall, he was a man who’d likely never encountered true struggle, so how could he possibly understand the things that someone like Anders had lived through? 

He couldn’t. Oppression and persecution were things a man in Sebastian’s station had never known, and so he could never know how those things would weigh on a person. An animal that had been backed into a corner, provoked and taunted and abused, would lash out at some point, in some way.

But even so… a man wasn’t an animal, acting solely on base instincts in some sort of vacuum. A man didn’t murder innocents simply as a means of escaping his abusers. So what had Anders become, to make him capable of the sort of destruction she’d seen in Kirkwall?


	9. Chapter 9

**18 Bloomingtide, 9:38**

"And so your scouts told you that they had seen Anders leave Nevarra City?"

Sebastian shook his head as he swallowed his first sip of wine. "They tracked him here, saw him once not far from the centre square, and then he was gone. They lost his trail here."

Roslyn hummed and rapped a fingernail on the lip of her tankard. "It is a rather large city. Easy for someone to get lost here."

"True, but I doubt he'd have stayed for long. If he knew he was being trailed, he had to know he would be traced here eventually." Sebastian paused to survey the tavern around them. "And the first step is to see if we can find someone who may have seen where he went."

Roslyn scoffed. "Like a needle in a bloody haystack."

"I suppose you'd prefer a more direct approach?"

"Always."

"Well, perhaps you'll be lucky on that front soon enough. But for now," Sebastian said, pushing away from the bar with his free hand, "we need to figure out which haystack to start poking around in. You take the half nearest the door, and I’ll take the other. Listen for anything that might help; anything to do with mages or Templars, even. Ask questions."

Roslyn nodded and waved Sebastian off. "You act as though this is the first time I’ve done reconnaissance in some seedy tavern before," she said as she moved past him towards the front of the tavern.

The tavern was large, at least twice as wide as the Hanged Man—and twice as dingy. The scent of brine and sulphur was noticeably absent, though, without a bevy of dockworkers to carry it in from the water. Instead, the patrons seemed to be mostly loggers and farmers, ventured into the city from the dense forests that surrounded the outskirts; large, burly men of the earth that might well kill a mage on sight, given half a chance.

Sebastian skirted around the tables to the back of the room, propping himself against the wall. He brought his goblet up to his mouth and pretended to take a long sip, using the cup to shield his eyes so that he could close them, to focus his hearing more acutely. He listened for anything that might connect to Anders in any way, but heard little more than animated chatter. 

He knew it was possible that no one in the city had seen him. Posters had been erected throughout the Free Marches for nearly a year, and his face was well-known in most cities there by now. But he'd yet to see such a poster since Hasmal. Still, he had to imagine Anders would be difficult to miss. He was taller than most men, and already of a thin build, which was likely exaggerated by a year's worth of a life without regular meals. He would be haggard and unclean, presumably, given the little money he likely had to spare.

Having no luck at the very edge of the tavern, Sebastian moved inwards, weaving between tables slowly, until he found an empty seat at the end of a long table. He sat on the bench and huddled over his goblet, keeping his eyes on the dark red liquid inside. 

He’d ended up next to a group of guardsmen; a handful of them were still armoured, while others had discarded different pieces onto the floor. They were heatedly discussing something to do with their duty roster, and after several minutes Sebastian was about to move on when he heard something of use.

"You know," one man said near the head of the table, his voice low and hoarse, "been a year and one half now since that business in Kirkwall."

"'S'at right. Coulda sworn 'twas longer 'n that. Nearly two, maybe," another slurred.

A third man across from Sebastian slammed his tankard down on the table, and Sebastian could see suds splashing out onto the stained wood from the edge of his vision. "Nah, nah, yer both wrong. Was a year at most, maybe a month more."

Sebastian looked up slightly then, watching the third man from the corner of his eye.

"Oh yeah, Piney?" The first man laughed loudly and swigged from his tankard. "How you so sure 'bout that?"

Piney grinned. "Cause I seen the bastard who did it."

A wave of heat rushed through Sebastian's gut and he fought the urge to watch Piney head-on. He had to hear more before he stepped in; the man could have been talking about anybody at this point.

A fourth man scoffed. "Stuffed to bursting, you are. How you even know what he looks like?"

"When I was in Tantervale, I seen posters everywhere. Tall 'n scrawny, pointy face. Then, a month later, the bugger passed through my gate one night. Scrawnier 'n the poster, anyway, 'n bloody well rank, too."

The first man laughed again, just as loudly. "The lyrium-sucker that destroys a Chantry comes to your gate one night and you don't even make to stop him."

Piney shrugged and took a deep sip from his tankard. "Ain't wanted for murder in Nevarra, last I heard. Marcher business ain't nothin' more 'n that."

Sebastian cleared his throat, loud enough to cut into the laughter. "Amen t' that," he said, looking up at Piney and raising his goblet to him in a toast.

"'n who in the Blight are you?" Piney asked with a huff, his eyes narrowing at Sebastian and his tankard remaining flush on the table.

"Just a traveller, in from Wildervale." Sebastian did his best to hide the natural brogue of his voice, something he'd not had to do since performing confessionals in Kirkwall, and he hoped he still had a talent for it.

"Wildervale," said someone to Sebastian's right, but he didn't turn to see who it was, lest it seem to them like he cared. "What’s a Marcher doin' up in Nevarra?"

"Lookin' for work. Kirkwall's no place to go now, now that the Chantry's gone."

"And you ain't angry that ol' Piney here let that mage just walk on through his gate without so much as a proper fleecin'?" the first man called from down the table, a sneer pulling up at the corner of his mouth through a bushy beard.

Sebastian shook his head. He had to find out exactly which gate Anders had gone through, but he knew if he asked the question outright it'd invite a lot more suspicion than he was prepared to handle off the cuff like this. "Let the bastard run," he said. "He’ll get bested by the bears out in those forests once their sleep wears off." He remembered from his map that the woods only surrounded Nevarra city on three sides; the north faded into sparse brush not far beyond the Minanter.

Piney scoffed. "Ain’t no bears where that man's headed." He shook his head and took a deep drink of ale. "Nothing but a Blighted desert for days."

Sebastian held back the sigh of relief that twitched in his chest. "All the better then," he said, tipping back his goblet and draining the rest of his wine. He shifted and swung a leg over the bench, turning to Piney before he stood and held out a hand to the man. "You have yourself a good night, serah."

Piney eyed Sebastian's hand suspiciously for a moment before shaking it slowly. "Turnin' in a little early for a Marcher, ain't ya?"

Sebastian gave Piney a wink as he let go of his hand. "Headin' out early too."

* * *

"Truthfully? I can't believe this worked."

Sebastian finished laying out his map of Thedas across the bed in his room and then looked over at Roslyn and grinned. "Nor can I—it was nearly too easy."

A smile pulled at the corner of Roslyn's mouth for a moment before she bit down on her lips. "Alright," she said, crossing her arms over her chest, "try not to look so happy about it."

"Now, if Anders headed north out of Nevarra City…" Sebastian bent over the map, trailing the line of the Imperial Highway with his fingertip as it fed out of the city and up into the Silent Plains, and Roslyn leaned over next to him to look at the map, her long braid falling forward to brush against the edge of the parchment, somewhere down over lower Ferelden. "East, maybe. Towards Antiva?"

Roslyn gave a flat hum and shook her head. "The Imperial Highway ends in Perivantium, and look how far it is, from there to the next city," she said, tapping the Hundred Pillars. "If Anders has been on the run as long as you say he has, then he likely can’t afford to go so long without moving into a city for supplies."

"Every direction past Nevarra is a long distance between cities. We can’t assume he hasn’t figured a system for that by now."

"Maybe not, but at least by following the highway he would come upon caravans."

Sebastian nodded, considering. He followed the highway as it moved northwest, carving into Tevinter. 

"Tevinter," Roslyn whispered as she watched Sebastian’s finger move.

Sebastian straightened and turned to Roslyn. "Of course."

"It makes perfect sense," Roslyn said, nodding and facing Sebastian. "The amulet."

"Amulet? What amulet?"

"The amulet that Hawke gave to him. Found it up in the hills surrounding Kirkwall, or some such. It was a symbol of the Tevinter Chantry. He wrote to me about it not long after he received it; he said he’d worn it under his clothes and close to heart every day since."

Sebastian shook his head. "I’d never seen such an amulet. Hawke must have found it on an excursion that I was absent from." 

The hair along the back of Sebastian’s neck prickled at the thought of Anders, in his current state, in Tevinter. Surely, even under the influence of Vengeance, he wouldn’t consider the magisters as a viable option for his survival. A mage in such a compromised state would be easy prey even for a magister’s apprentice with a basic grasp of the inner workings of the Fade. 

"It seems logical, doesn’t it? That Anders would think to retreat there? If there’s one region in Thedas that could harbour and protect an apostate, it would be Minrathous."

"Aye, one would presume, but there have been stories… there was an elf that I knew in Kirkwall, an ex-slave of a magister from Minrathous. He had said it was a hostile environment, even for foreign mages that sought succour there."

Roslyn’s mouth tightened in to a grim line and her eyebrows furrowed together, and she turned back towards the map. "Oh, Anders…" Her voice trembled slightly. "How long will it take us, to reach Minrathous?"

Sebastian reached for his plotting compass and leaned over the map. He carefully counted day-long increments, following along the Imperial Highway. "Ten, precisely, but to factor in possible delays, I would presume a fortnight."

"Maker…" Roslyn pulled away from the map, moving towards the door of Sebastian’s room. "Who knows how long he may have been there already. How long as has it been since your scouts last traced him, again?"

Sebastian began folding the map, keeping the route out of Nevarra visible. "Over two months. It was early Drakonis, when they tracked him here."

Roslyn nodded. "Then we need to hurry. We leave tomorrow, at dawn."


	10. Chapter 10

**22 Bloomingtide, 9:38**

When Sebastian had first examined the route along the Imperial Highway, out of Nevarra and winding up to Minrathous, he had calculated it to take two days to cross the Silent Plains–three, at most. 

Yet now it was nearing the end of the fourth day and they had yet to reach the final quarter of the seemingly never-ending expanse of desert. 

He hadn’t expected the desert to stretch on as far as it had. He had assumed, according to the map, that the forests surrounding Nevarra City would eventually give way to short, dry shrubs and gradual steppes building up and away from the sides of the highway. It had been that way, for the first two days. However, the brush was quickly replaced on the third day with nothing but pale, coarse sand for as far as he could see. Even the highway, which had been clearly demarcated throughout the Free Marches and Nevarra, had disappeared beneath the sea of sand. It was all he could do at that point to hope that they were at least heading in the right direction; to err and drift east or west would be a potentially fatal mistake, leaving them lost in a land where they’d encountered no one else since the outskirts of Nevarra City.

During the days, the sun had been hot and unrelenting. There had been small creeks and streams cutting through the brush so water had been readily available. But that had been the last water they had seen, and not knowing how long it would take to finally reach the far end of the desert, they were forced to ration the water they had remaining. Dusk brought relief from the sun, but within hours, wind whipped over the gentle cusps of the sand dunes, frenetic and coming upon them from every direction, and it grew as cold as Starkhaven in early winter. 

On this evening, the wind had begun sooner than on the previous days, as if ushered in by the setting of the sun. And it was stronger, carrying with it small, biting particles of sand that lashed against their skin.

"We need to stop now," Sebastian called to Roslyn over his shoulder as he dismounted from his horse. "This wind is too strong."

Roslyn brought her horse up beside Sebastian and dismounted. "Maker’s breath, look at the sky."

Sebastian held the reins in one hand and shielded his eyes with the other, angling up to look at the sky. The entirety of it had been washed over with a dirty yellow tinge, with the low sun glowing bright orange just over the horizon. He looked back at Roslyn who was beginning to set up her tent.

"It’s a storm of some sort," he said, working the buckles that held his tent to his horse’s saddle with his free hand. "I’ve… I’ve never seen anything like this."

Roslyn looked over her shoulder up at him. "Neither have I," she replied, her voice grim. "What do we do?"

Sebastian’s horse whinnied loudly, pulling its head away from Sebastian’s arm and nearly tugging the reins free from his hand. "We need to secure the horses first," he said, yanking back on the reins to steady the animal. 

He gave up on trying to free his tent for the moment and reached instead for the tethers in his pack. The horse fought against his grip as best it could, its eyes wide and ears pinned; he nearly lost hold of the reins once, but he wrapped them tighter around his hand and knelt to set up the tethers.

Once the horses were secured, Sebastian looked over at Roslyn who had finished setting up her tent. He was about to speak, but a powerful gust of wind came upon them suddenly from the east, slamming a wall of sand into them. The horses screamed and fought against their tethers, and Roslyn’s kicked its legs backwards, narrowly missing Roslyn as she huddled away from the wind.

Roslyn looked up at Sebastian once the gust had passed, and her eyes looked nearly as frightened as the horses' had a moment ago. She held his gaze briefly before she closed her eyes and shook her head to get rid of the sand trapped in her hair.

Sebastian looked over at his pack, still strapped to his horse, mentally cataloguing the contents for anything that might serve as enough cover to protect the horses. The only thing that would be made of fabric heavy enough to hold off the lashing sand was his tent, made of sturdy canvas.

It would have to do. They were completely exposed to the wind on all sides, with nothing but low dunes in sight and no way to create any sort of shelter for the horses. And if they hoped to reach the other side of the desert before they ran completely out of water, they would need to keep the horses alive.

He unrolled the tent and unsheathed the knife at his utility belt, and he began to cut wide strips from one edge.

Roslyn spun to look at him when she heard the tearing of the fabric. "What in the Maker’s name are you doing?" she shouted, rushing over to where he stood.

"Unless you have blinds and saddle blankets in your pack, Warden-Commander, we’ll need some way to shield the horses. They won’t last more than few hours once this storm strengthens."

"B-but your tent! Surely you’ll survive even less time out in the wind than they will."

Sebastian levelled his eyes at Roslyn, pulling harshly to separate a strip from the rest of the canvas. He didn’t answer, and instead moved over to his horse, wrapping the canvas around the horses head to cover its eyes.

Roslyn glanced back over at her erected tent and nodded slowly. "Right. Point taken."

She drew the knife that she wore strapped to her thigh and began cutting into the canvas on the opposite end to Sebastian.

"Eight pieces for the lower legs, and try to leave as much whole as possible to cover their backs," Sebastian said, cutting another wide strip for Roslyn’s horse’s head. "That will cover the most sensitive parts, at least."

* * *

Two hours later, the wind was unrelenting. It slammed into the sides of the tent and howled through whatever small gaps it could find in the joins. The tent was only just large enough to fit both their bedrolls, and they sat across from each other, eating a dinner of cold meat, bread, and cheese in silence.

An especially sharp gust blew past then, sending the customary wall of sand along a split-second after it. The horses whinnied next, as they had done after each prevailing gust.

Roslyn winced at the sound. "This is complete shite," she said, her voice low and quiet enough that Sebastian barely heard it.

He nodded, finishing a mouthful of bread before answering. "Of all the situations I ever expected to find myself in, a sandstorm in the very middle of Thedas was absent from the list."

"I’ve seen every corner of Ferelden, some more than once, and even the storms in the Frostbacks aren’t as shite as this. At least snow doesn’t get in your mouth as you try to eat."

Sebastian chuckled, watching as Roslyn picked a grain of sand from her mouth as if to prove her point. "Yes, I suppose you have at that."

"You’re a bit different, you know. Most people are, still, rather surprised that I'm not only a Grey Warden, but the Warden-Commander."

"Even after the Blight, and all you've done?" Sebastian asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Roslyn shrugged, nodding slowly. "Slaying a dragon must not carry the same gravitas that it once did, Arch Demon or no. Or, perhaps more likely, it's the lack of a cock dangling between my legs."

Sebastian nearly choked then on a piece of cheese. Roslyn had a different sort of mouth, he knew that much already, but she'd not used it so freely with him before then. "M-must be," he sputtered, as he tried to recover his breath.

Roslyn smirked. "So how is it, then, that you've not asked how I became a Warden?"

"I don't know, really. I suppose I assumed that the stories were true."

"Stories? And what stories would those be?"

"That you were conscripted. After your family... after the betrayal by Rendon Howe."

Roslyn was quiet, staring down at her fingers as she worried them about themselves in her lap. 

It was a likely still a difficult subject, Sebastian reasoned. He could empathise. He wondered then whether she was aware of just how similar their fates had been once, seven or eight years ago. 

"Is that not the truth?" he asked after a moment.

Roslyn sighed. "No, no, it is." Her voice cracked somewhat, and then the back of an index finger moved to catch a tear under her eye. She shook her head and let out a small chuckle. "Maker's bullocks, it's been eight years! You'd think by now I would—"

"It doesn't matter how long it's been," Sebastian interjected. "It's a horrific thing, to lose your entire family so suddenly, so brutally."

Roslyn looked up at Sebastian, her head cocked to one side. "Rather insightful."

Sebastian shrugged and leaned forward, resting his elbows on top of his folded knees. "Like understands like." Roslyn's face turned suspicious then, her eye narrowing at him. "I remember you confirming, back in Highever, that you’ve not heard of what happened to my family."

"No, I’ve not. Though I’m gathering it's not very different than what happened to my own?"

"It's a strange sort of similarity, really. Though I suppose not something that's decidedly rare amongst the Thedosian nobility."

Roslyn pulled her legs close to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and resting her chin on top of her knees. "Your entire family?"

Sebastian nodded, watching as Roslyn’s face softened as the realisation must have sunk in for her. He hadn't noticed before exactly how striking her features were. Not delicate in any sense, really — a strong jaw, a large, slightly-crooked nose, eyes nearly too big for her face. And now, as that last vestige of suspicion or distrust or whatever it was that she harboured against him faded away at that moment, he could see a sort of easiness there.

"And were you there at the time?"

"I wasn't. I was in Kirkwall, serving in the Chantry by then. It was a coup. I wasn't able to return to Starkhaven, to... make arrangements."

Roslyn nodded slowly. "I understand—neither Fergus nor I were able to go back to Highever for over a year. Fergus hated himself for it, not being able to get back there, to them... but realistically, does it matter what happened to their bodies? I don't know. I like to think that the Maker would accept them in any way possible." She sighed, running a hand through her dirty hair, with some difficulty. "Maybe that's daft."

"No, not at all—the Maker doesn't judge us on how we arrive at His feet; He's grateful just that we've reached Him at all."

"I'm not really overly devout, you know. I've seen some rather miraculous things over the years, and still..."

"You needn't be a member of the Chantry to want to believe that the Maker has a place for you."

"Says the man who used to be a Brother," Roslyn said, giving Sebastian a half-smile.

Sebastian shook his head, returning Roslyn’s smile. "I wasn’t always devout, either."

"Until you found the Maker, you mean."

"Rather, until He found me."

"And how’s that?"

"It’s how I ended up Kirkwall in the first place. My family gave me over to the Chantry because they were ashamed of the life I lead."

Roslyn’s eyebrows rose. "That seems rather harsh—what could you possibly have done?"

"It wasn’t one thing in particular. I was a lout, simply put. Drinking to all hours, sometimes for days on end, and taking part in all the things that tend to be part and parcel with drink."

Roslyn laughed and then looked at Sebastian expectantly, as if waiting for him to move on from the punch line of a joke. When he didn’t speak, she levelled her eyes at him. "You’re serious."

Sebastian scoffed. He turned slightly to lean down on an elbow, stretching a leg out fully down the length of his bedroll. "And I suppose you’re precisely the same person you once were, eighteen years ago?"

"Well, no, of course not. But you can’t blame me for my surprise," she said, her voice a little incredulous. "You were a Brother in the Chantry. Most Brothers and Sisters I’ve met have been decidedly… non-rakish."

"The Chantry accepts all kinds," Sebastian replied with a crooked smile.

Roslyn chuckled and shook her head. She held Sebastian’s eye for a moment and then looked down at the toes of her boots.

The wind still whipped around outside, throwing itself into the tent from all sides. The sand sounded almost like thousands of hard drops of rain as it hit the canvas, but the incessant whinnies and snorts coming from the horses made it clear that it was a different kind of storm. Sebastian has lost count of the number of hours that the wind had been blowing, but he knew it wouldn’t yet be midnight.

"Would you answer something? Truthfully?" Roslyn asked suddenly, turning her head to look at Sebastian.

"'Truthfully'? Have I been untruthful? I thought by now perhaps you’d come to regard me a little more objectively."

"No, no…" She sighed. "I just mean, if I was to ask you a question, would you answer me with the truth, rather than what you thought I’d want to hear."

"That’s all I’ve done since I met you in Highever, Warden-Commander."

Roslyn nodded. "Right. Well, first, enough with the titles—even my seneschal doesn’t call me by my title."

Sebastian chuckled. "Perhaps then you ought to switch seneschals with your brother; I doubt that man bothered to learn even my name, let alone my title."

"I think not," Roslyn replied, her nose wrinkling. "Dennel would be eaten alive by the Wardens at the Keep within hours."

"So, then, Roslyn—your question?"

Roslyn cleared her throat. "Why is it so important to you to find Anders? I understand the need for justice, for what happened to those you were close to in the Chantry. But to track him across the continent? If it’s simply to see him dead, I’d wager that either the harshness of northern Thedas, or the whims of the magisters in Minrathous might see that done for you."

"It’s not to see him dead," Sebastian said. "It had been, once, and for a long time. Truthfully, even when I first met you, it was still the sort of justice that I thought I wanted."

"I remember," Roslyn interjected. "You were quite angry."

Sebastian nodded. "I was. I’ve come to realise, though, that my seeing to Anders’ death will do little to properly honour the lives of those who died before him. Elthina, the Grand Cleric, told me years ago and before I was ready to listen, that 'death is never justice.' In the aftermath of it all, I thought that the only way to fill the void left by Elthina was to see her murderer dead. I'd forgotten her words, and it wasn't until I saw the mourners in Kirkwall that I remembered."

"It’s hard to turn away revenge when it falls at your feet. I put my sword clean through Howe’s chest without any hesitation, and I think I'd still do the same today."

"Now I wonder whether what I seek is truly revenge, however. Is it that, or is it just some degree of closure? It’s hard to say. Those mourners in Kirkwall weren't vengeful; they didn't speak of death or retribution. They only wanted some sort of peace."

"What, then, would bring you that closure, if not Anders’ death?"

Sebastian shook his head, considering. "I know you find it hard to believe me, but Anders is a danger. He’s not himself any longer. For all of our differences, and for the ways we came up against each other, he was a kind soul. Compassionate, desperate to see other mages vindicated in their search for freedom. But in the way that his personality was warped by Justice’s transition to a spirit of vengeance, so was his morality."

"Yes," Roslyn said quietly, nodding. "It’s difficult to imagine the Anders that I first met, reconciling the deaths of all those innocents in that way. What could he have hoped to achieve, realistically? Did he ever say?"

Sebastian let out a huff. The moment was burned into his memory permanently, and he'd likely never forget the words. "'I removed the chance of compromise, because there is no compromise.' That's what he said."

"Maker..." Roslyn whispered under her breath. She was quiet for a moment, tightening her arms around her knees. "Maybe you're right. I don't know. I don't know what to think." She kept her eyes down as she spoke, focusing at some point on the ground.

"Neither do I, truthfully. All I can think to do is to catch up to Anders. He wouldn't talk to me, I'm sure of that. Maybe he would to you."

"I hope so," Roslyn said, looking up at Sebastian. "You're a good person, Sebastian. Not that you need any validation of that from me, I know, but I felt I needed to say it, given the way I regarded you initially."

Sebastian smiled at Roslyn. "No, maybe I don't need the validation, per se, but it is appreciated, and I certainly won't turn it away. It's good to know that we're now on the same level, finally."

"Agreed," Roslyn said, returning the smile.


	11. Chapter 11

**26 Bloomingtide, 9:38**

The sand storm ended, finally, half a day after it began, and it would be another three days before Sebastian and Roslyn would finally emerge from the northern end of the Silent Plains, gritty and dried through to the core.

They sought water first, desperate to drink and to bathe. the terrain wasn't especially verdant, and it took four hours to come across anything more than a weak trickling of water. They heard the creek before they saw it, something quiet and gurgling off of the northern side of the Imperial Highway.

Roslyn turned over her shoulder, from her position a few feet ahead, and looked at Sebastian. He nodded, confirming that he had heard the sound too.

"Twenty yards, maybe less," he said, turning to look in the direction of the creek. He tried to see any hint of the water through the thick brush, a gap in the vegetation or a reflection of sunlight; he saw nothing, but he could still hear the water gurgling quietly.

"I need a damned bath," Roslyn replied, swinging a leg over her horse as she dismounted. She pulled the horse behind her as she began to wade through the tall bushes that lined the Highway.

"Roslyn, wait—we should consult the map before we move off the Highway."

Roslyn shook her head, barely taking the time to look back at Sebastian. "I've enough sand in my hair alone to weight a full sandbag, Sebastian. I'd rather take the chance."

She was gone from sight half a minute later, obscured by vegetation. Sebastian was tired, and sore. But while he preferred to push forward to Vol Dorma, the next town along the Highway, he couldn't deny that a drink and a rinse didn't sound appealing. He let out a deep sigh and heaved himself off his horse, following the faint path that Roslyn had cut through the brush.

He caught up to her after a few minutes, finding her kneeling in the dark brown sand beside the creek, her fingers scrabbling over the straps of her gauntlets. He tied off his horse next to hers and moved to stand a short distance away from her. He didn't know the protocol for this. She was well familiar with travelling with others, with men, and with bathing in their presence, but he'd only ever travelled with Hawke, and there'd been no occasion to wash in front of him or the rest of his companions.

So, he kept his head down, paying extra attention to the closures and releases of his chestpiece. He could hear the pieces of Roslyn's armour clatter on top of each other as she discarded them onto the shore, and at first he tried to keep track; one gauntlet, then two; both pauldrons, and the rerebrace. And then he lost count. Her armour was complicated, with several more components than the few upper-body pieces that he wore.

Before long, though, there came a splash and an 'Oh Maker, yes' and Sebastian cleared his throat, as if to cover the tone of Roslyn's voice. He looked over to where she'd knelt, and was relieved to see that she'd stripped only her armour. He finished toeing off his boots, and then waded slowly into the cool water.

It felt good, he would agree with Roslyn there, though he kept his own exclamations to the Maker to himself. It had been over a week since water had last touched his skin, and for the moment, it was as welcome a feeling as sinking into his large bed in Starkhaven at the end of the day.

"Oh to be a fish," Roslyn called over to Sebastian, running a hand over her soaked hair to slick it away from her face. She smiled at him when their eyes met, something wide and more earnest than he'd seen her wear before.

He opened his mouth to speak, to throw back a retort of some kind, but his voice was silenced by the sound of a single arrow whizzing past, close to his left ear. He watched in slow horror as it sailed towards Roslyn, but she dove desperately to her left, leaving the arrow to pierce the water where her torso had just been.

A clutch of arrows came then, followed by six men as they tore out of the bushes to the south, yelling indiscriminately as they ran towards Sebastian and Roslyn. Sebastian ran to his left to collect his bow and quiver from where he'd begun to discard his armour and looked to Roslyn, who was scrambling up onto the shore towards her swords before the bandits could reach them.

There wasn't time to strap his quiver on properly, so he slung it loosely over his shoulder as he began backing away to the east quickly, nocking an arrow as he moved, his eyes pegged to Roslyn as she finally reached her swords. He didn't want to pull away from Roslyn but he needed to create some distance between himself and the bandits in order to gain any accuracy.

He aimed, drew back and loosed that first arrow in one single motion, and was relieved to see it land squarely in the neck of the man closest to Roslyn. The bandit crumpled to the ground, a harsh, gurgling sound escaping his mouth, but he was silent by the time his head landed in the sand. Sebastian let out a deep breath, reaching for another arrow; five bandits remained, and if he could maintain that same accuracy, they'd be disposed of before long.

Roslyn suddenly had two to contend with, one in front of her and one at her flank. Sebastian aimed for the man behind her, noticing an unmistakable glint of metal as he twirled two small daggers in his hands; any accuracy on Sebastian's behalf would be completely for naught if Roslyn took a dagger to the spine. The rogue bandit was quick, darting behind Roslyn from side to side, trying to disorient her as she fended off the swordsman in front of her, and it was hard for Sebastian to get a proper sightline on any vital part of the body. He squinted, focusing and adjusting the aim of his bow in small, but crucial, increments. He released it while his bow was trained on the side of the bandit's chest, but the man darted to the side again as the arrow was in flight, and instead it landed in his upper thigh. He howled all the same, staggering back and dropping his daggers to grasp his leg.

"Roslyn! Behind!"

Roslyn nodded at Sebastian and turned, diving one of her swords into the fallen bandit's chest, angling down and underneath his chestpiece. The man gave a last cry and then slumped forward, and Roslyn pulled her sword free, putting her boot to his shoulder for leverage.

And then Sebastian felt it. A quick, sharp, searing pain at his left side, where an icy cold blade met the heat of his skin, slicing through the linen of his tunic easily. He hadn't seen the bandit approach, with his attention set on Roslyn, and as he reeled back now, he couldn't see where the bandit had gone. His side was drenched in blood, but he couldn't determine exactly where the wound was for the pain radiating out across the whole of his torso.

He stumbled back, and looked to Roslyn who was near to besting another bandit, though her eyes kept darting to meet his own, away from the swordsman in front of her.

Sebastian drew in a sharp breath, biting his lip against the pain, and he reached for another arrow in his quiver. His range of motion was severely limited, and he didn't dare let out the breath he held, lest it carry his consciousness with it. He drew his bow, but he couldn't lift it nearly high enough, as every nerve on his left side screamed in pain. He dropped to his knees, slowly exhaling and letting his head drop forward. He heard the sound of footsteps pounding towards him and he lifted his eyes, looking past the pieces of hair that had fallen over his forehead to see another bandit closing in.

Even if he were able to lift his bow fully, there wouldn't have been time to nock an arrow; the bandit was coming upon him too quickly. Instead, Sebastian reached across himself for his dagger at his left hip, crying out as his wounded muscles stretched and burned, but it came quiet and weak compared to the yell of the bandit. Sebastian looked up as he drew his dagger; the man was almost upon him, and all he could do was thrust his right arm and pray that the dagger connected.

It did, though the force of the man slamming into him knocked Sebastian backwards. Sebastian struggled to withdraw his dagger to attempt another stab, but the bandit was too fast upon him. He took a gauntleted fist to the jaw and then another to the side of his head, and a murky blackness began to creep into his vision on all sides. He shook his head, trying to resist the slip into unconsciousness, but everything grew darker still and the last thing he saw, as his head drooped to the right, was Roslyn's boot raising up to the bandit's side.

* * *

Sebastian's consciousness returned, slowly. Sounds came first. The sound of canvas slapping against the ground. The sound of metal clinking softly against itself. The sound of wood popping in the heat of a fire. The sound of an owl, hunting somewhere in the distance. Smells soon followed, with the aroma of roasting meat coupled with the sharp tinge of something acrid in his nose. It seemed placid, wherever he was; calm and quiet. But that was wrong... There had been men screaming, violent clashes of metal and solid thwacks of bowstrings. He struggled to open his eyes but they resisted and he grunted in his frustration.

"Shh," came a woman's voice, somewhere to his left, soft and low. "Don't struggle."

Roslyn.

A warm hand passed over his forehead, and he wanted to shift up (into/against) it but his body didn't react. The hand came again, moving more slowly and resting at the top of his head, and he breathed deeply. A contented feeling came over him, feeling the weight of someone else's hand on him in that tender gesture.

His eyes opened finally; his vision was blurry and he had to blink a few times to clear it. Roslyn was there, hovering over him. Her hair was pulled back, and he could see a deep bruise over her left cheek, just under her eye.

"Maker..." Sebastian mumbled, groaning as he tried to shift where he lay.

"He was on your side today," Roslyn said, smiling and leaning back on her heels.

Sebastian drew his right arm up to prop up his head and looked around. He was inside the tent, the flaps open and a fire burning a short distance away; he could feel the warmth of it against the skin at his right side.

"The bandits," he said, looking back to Roslyn. "There were... three left, that I remember. You killed them all?"

Roslyn nodded. "The first two were a challenge, but once they were dead, the third gave in quite quickly."

"Your eye."

Roslyn touched the darkened skin under her eye gingerly. "It'll be alright in a few days. Nothing like what you took."

Sebastian glanced down, remembering the sword wound to his side. Roslyn had wrapped a thick bandage around his waist, and there was a large, dark patch of blood on his left, just below his ribs. The same acrid smell wafted upwards again, his nose wrinkling against it instinctively.

"A poultice," Roslyn said. "Held against the would under the bandage. They're quite common in Ferelden, but I've not seen any here so I've made my own. To help with the clotting."

"Thank you." He felt daft for saying it; it seemed simple and inadequate but he didn't know what else to say.

"Of course." Roslyn smiled again. "Though let's hope we're free of bandits for a while yet."

Sebastian sighed and pulled himself up slowly onto his elbows. "We’ll be on the road tomorrow, and we won’t stop until we’ve reached Vol Dorma."

"Certainly not. You need to rest, and Vol Dorma is at least three or four days away."

"We can’t waste more time, Roslyn. It’s already taken us longer than it should have to cross the Silent Plains. I won’t be the one to delay us further."

"And I won’t be the one to be responsible for the death of a prince of the Free Marches," Roslyn countered, her voice terse. "One day; just give yourself that."

One day, on top of the extra four it had taken to reach the other side of that Blighted desert. When they’d left Nevarra, he had allotted for roughly four days more than he expected it should have taken, and now they would move beyond even that, and it was his fault. He shouldn’t have let his guard down at the creek. He could have waited until they had reached Vol Dorma for a proper cleansing, and now his carelessness had delayed them, and had injured Roslyn.

Roslyn scoffed. "I can practically see you blaming yourself right this minute."

"Never mind," Sebastian said, shaking his head. "It’s done. We’ll take tomorrow, and then will set out before sunrise the day after."

"As you wish. Now…" Roslyn turned and rummaged through her pack. She turned back, holding a bundle of cloth. "I need to change your dressings."

Sebastian nodded and sat up fully, wincing as the pain bloomed at his side. Roslyn came up beside him, carefully picking at the edge of the bandage he wore, unwinding it around him. He looked down to watch as she slowly pulled away the poultice; it was stained dark red, and the wound underneath was festering. It didn’t seem deep, but it was significant all the same.

Roslyn sluiced warm water over the wound with a rag and applied a new poultice, clean against his tanned and bloody skin, and then she began to wrap a new bandage around his torso. Each time she leaned in to reach his far side, Sebastian could feel her breath pass over his chest, warming the skin that hadn’t been touched by the fire. His skin turned into gooseflesh at the sensation, and then Roslyn’s fingers brushed against his lower stomach and his breath hitched. A coil of heat formed in his gut, winding in on itself, tightening. It had been a long time since a woman had been so close to him like this.

"Almost done," Roslyn said then, her quiet voice carrying over Sebastian’s skin.

He cleared his throat, begging his voice back. "You’re quite the… efficient healer," he said, desperate to distract himself somehow.

Roslyn glanced up at Sebastian, giving him a crooked smile before she looked back down at her fingers as she fastened off the bandage. "Luckily for you, I’ve rather a lot of experience with patching up attractive men. Takes more than a stab to a well-formed torso to best my healing skills."

Sebastian watched as Roslyn drew back, though she only pulled away a little; she was still close enough to his side that he could feel the warmth of her. "Is that so," he said, matching the half-smile she still wore. "Well thank the Maker that I’ve ended up here with you, then."

Roslyn held his eyes for a moment, and then glanced away. "I'm glad you're alright," she said quietly. "Against all my better judgement, it seems that I..." she paused, looking back up at him. "I care for you."

The coil in Sebastian's stomach wound tighter still, reminding him of its presence there. He'd known since the storm in the Silent Plains that Roslyn had become more than just a means to an end, but he'd not allowed himself to dwell on it. It was pointless to do so. She was there to assist him in finding Anders, and beyond that, there was nothing else. But now, to hear that she felt the same... he found himself wanting to ignore the pragmatisms of it all.

She looked away again, her eyes falling to some point on the ground. He lifted his right hand, bracing himself with his other arm and reached for her, hooking a finger under her chin and drawing her face upwards.

"I care for you too, Roslyn," he said, trying to lean towards her as best he could with the thick bandage restricting his movement.

She closed the distance between them, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and drawing into him. Sebastian moved his hand from her chin to cup the back of her head, and their lips met, slow and soft.


	12. Chapter 12

**2 Justinian, 9:38**

It was four days' walk to Vol Dorma, and very nearly five, given that it was past midnight by the time Sebastian and Roslyn reached the inn in the southeastern corner of the town. Sebastian's pace was slower than normal, and much slower than he'd have liked, given how far behind schedule they were, but there was nothing for it now. The poultices that Roslyn had crafted were doing their job, and she'd even soaked them in some rotten-smelling mixture that caused them to numb the skin around the wound so that the pain was more manageable. With any luck, the wound would be mostly healed in less than fortnight.

And, as they came upon the inn, the annoyance he felt at how slowly he moved ebbed away, overtaken by relief at the promise of a large meal and a warm bed.

The inn was spacious and well-appointed, and certainly the best they'd encountered since the Free Marches. Vol Dorma was one of the largest towns in the Imperium, and being the first along the southern border, it served as a beacon to travellers — what few happened to pass through into Tevinter.

The corridors were bathed in warm light, and with the large, plush bed and the deep stone tub in his suite, it gave the impression of being exceptionally welcoming. But impressions only carried so deep, Sebastian well knew, and that became all the more apparent as he and Roslyn sat in the dining hall.

Once out in the open, it was easy to spot those native to the Imperium, and those not. The travellers had an air of ease to them, grateful for the warmth of a bowl of stew and a readily-available tankard of ale. They talked and laughed freely, clearly ignorant of the few sets of hardened eyes trained upon them from every corner of the hall. But the eyes were there, and they watched every movement with the same levelled interest, never indicating exactly what aspect of the goings-on before them they were concerned with. Their eyes gave the Imperials away, coupled with the taught lines of their jaws and the unreadable expressions on their faces. Even the barkeep, normally one so animated either in joviality or bitterness at other inns, was quiet and withdrawn, his eyes never lifting further than a few inches above the edge of the bar in front of him. 

It gave Sebastian a feeling of unease, to see such a duality, and he could see that Roslyn was on edge as well. Though, rather than watching the rest of the hall that sat over Sebastian's shoulder, her eyes stayed fixed on her food as she ate, as if analysing every spoonful before lifting it to her mouth.

Sebastian wanted to ask what was the matter. But, for all that had happened between them in the last few days, it felt tenuous; as though, were he to try to coax her to open up, she'd more likely close in tighter around herself, shutting him out completely. It was an odd place to be in, held half close and half at a distance, but he was as equally confused by the fact that he wanted to be closer, to be brought into that guarded space around her.

"Weisshaupt is not far from here," Roslyn said eventually. Her voice was quiet, barely audible over the din of the hall.

The realisation of what that meant settled into Sebastian slowly, awkwardly. Beyond her initial distrust, Weisshaupt had been the foundation for Roslyn agreeing to accompany him, and the proximity of it meant she would be leaving him. "So you'll be on your way...?"

"Soon. Tomorrow, probably. I..." She sighed, sounding defeated. "I've been summoned, as you know. I can't ignore it."

Sebastian shook his head. "No, no, nor would I ask you to. You've been a tremendous help already, you owe me nothing."

"It's not a matter of owing you anything, Sebastian —it never was. I accompanied you at first because I didn't trust you, you well knew that. But now... it's different now."

Sebastian cursed the swoop in his belly that he felt then, as though her words meant more than they ought to.

Roslyn continued. "Anders is still in danger, and I won't be able to leave it at that. I need to know that he's okay, somehow."

"How long will you be at Weisshaupt?"

"I really don't know. The summons was vague, and the First Warden doesn't issue them for just anything."

"So, it will be serious, whatever it is."

"I suspect it might be about Anders."

Sebastian nodded slowly, looking down into the dark red wine in his goblet. "The First Warden knows, I assume, of Anders' joining with Justice."

"There isn't anything that has happened within the Wardens that Oberlitz isn't aware of. Maker knows how he finds out about all of it, but he does."

"Does he hold you responsible?"

"He bloody well shouldn't. I had no role in... that." Roslyn let out a heavy sigh. "Regardless, Oberlitz doesn't deal in pleasantries in as much as he doesn't deal in details, so I'm sure I won't be asked to rest a while and take advantage of their kind hospitality." She paused for a long moment to empty the contents of her goblet, which, Sebastian noted, had only been refilled a short time ago. "I would meet you again, here or in another part of Tevinter, if you'd allow it."

Sebastian's stomach dropped again, and he felt compelled to quickly drink the rest of his wine as well, though for what purpose he wasn't sure. "I— of course, Roslyn," he stammered when the wine was done, clearing his throat.

Roslyn smiled. "Good. I don't much like the idea of you travelling through a place like this on your own. Prone as you are to being near-fatally wounded, I mean."

Sebastian laughed, full and genuine, and he was grateful for the ease in her voice now. He knew she would withdraw once more, either tonight or later on when they met again, but for now it was a welcome thing. "Well, I did promise my seneschal that I wouldn't travel unaccompanied, so the sooner you find me again, the better he'll sleep, I'm sure."

The smile Roslyn wore lingered as she leaned back in her chair, her eyes moving to survey the hall around them. It was quiet, with many of the travellers now retired. And with them gone, the eyes of the remaining locals had no one to fall upon except for Sebastian and Roslyn.

"Speaking of sleep," she said a moment later. "It'll be an early morning, I suspect."

Sebastian nodded and rose from his seat. He pulled some coin from the satchel on his belt and walked the payment over to the barkeep. It was an old habit that he'd kept since his younger days in Starkhaven, where coin left on a table would sooner make it into the pocket of another patron before that of the barkeep. He returned to Roslyn and gestured for her to move on.

They reached the door to Roslyn's chamber first. "And where shall I see you next?" she asked, turning to face him.

"Asariel, on the edge of the Nocen Sea; it's the last town before Minrathous, and not far from here. I'll take a room at the largest inn there, if there happen to be more than one. I expect to reach it in four days."

Roslyn nodded. "Very well."

"I'll wait for you."

"As much as I want to continue on with you, Sebastian, we both know there's not much time to spare," Roslyn said, frowning slightly.

"I'll wait, even so."

"And where was this more relaxed schedule when you were laying half-gored on the ground outside the Silent Plains?"

Sebastian chuckled, giving a small shrug. "I'd no one to blame for that save myself. This way, any delays we might face will be your fault."

Roslyn laughed. "Says the nobleman."

"Watch after yourself, please, Roslyn."

The smile faded from Roslyn's face. "I'll be alright. I sent word to Oberlitz this morning, advising him that I was nearby, so I imagine there will be a brigade along the approach, waiting for me."

Sebastian nodded. "Well, then I shall see you again in Asariel. Maker guide your steps, Warden-Commander." He turned to continue down the hall towards his own room, when he heard Roslyn scoff over his shoulder. He looked back at her to see her standing still in front of her room, hands on her hips.

She reached forward then, grasping Sebastian by the wrist and pulling him towards her. She didn't stop pulling, however, once he'd stumbled back in front of her; instead, she drew him into her, pinning herself between him and the closed door. Her mouth was on his next, and it was entirely different from the kiss they'd shared a few nights before. Then, she'd been tentative; now, she was forceful, clasping the back of Sebastian's head in her hands and holding him to her.

Sebastian's blood burned as it rushed through his veins, and he let out a small, low moan as Roslyn's tongue brushed over his lips; they parted at the sensation and she delved inside his mouth. Sebastian panicked for a brief moment, but was then relieved as his instinct took over, and it was as though it hadn't been so many years since he'd last kissed someone.

Roslyn wrapped her arms around the back of his neck, and he leaned into her, pushing her back against the door and letting his hands fall to her hips. She angled her head upwards, deepening the kiss and he could hear her breath as she breathed in sharply through her nose. Her tongue wrapped about his, and he felt himself start to grow hard. 

It was too much, too soon, and with too much still ahead of them. It was nearly ten years since he'd last been with someone. And though his body near screamed that it was ready, he knew his mind wasn't. Not when there was so much uncertainty about when he would see her next. 

And so he slowly drew away, digging his fingertips into Roslyn's hips as a last surge of pleasure passed through him. She let out a short, quiet chuckle, her breath ghosting over his forehead where his head was bowed in front of her. 

"Maker guide your steps, Prince Vael," she said, her voice deep and warm in Sebastian's ear. She reached behind and turned the handle on the door, letting it swing open slightly. "Until Asariel, then."


	13. Chapter 13

**2 Justinian, 9:38**

It had been nearly three months since he had lost the scouts. One had stood outside the door of the suite he'd snuck into at that inn, back in Nevarra City, with the other posted at the inn's entrance. There had been a window in the suite, two storeys high, and it had been covered in tight lattice-work, but there were few things that could withstand an ice and fire spell combination, and aged wrought iron was not one of them. Once, maybe a year or two ago, he wouldn't have fit through that window for the breadth of his shoulders, but it'd been so long since his last full meal that he passed through without any struggle. He'd dropped to the ground, spraining an ankle in his fall but it hadn't been anything that a quick healing spell hadn't been able to right, once he'd had the chance to stop a few hours later.

The guard at the northern gate might have been a problem—or rather, should have been a problem—but he wasn't, and Anders walked through the gate and onto the Imperial Highway without so much as a second glance. The guard had had a look of recognition on his face, though Anders wasn't sure how. There'd been posters in the Free Marches, more than he could've hoped to realistically tear down himself, though not for want of trying. But once he'd crossed the border into Nevarra, there were no more posters. Maybe considerations of justice had a hard time crossing borders.

The Silent Plains had very nearly been the end of him, despite having magic at his disposal. Without a steady supply of lyrium and without anything more than foraged shrubbery and small, sickly rodents to eat, his energy levels had been dismal. The walking had been slow through the desert, but he forced himself to continue. He'd lost the scouts in Nevarra, but he knew that wouldn't be the end of the trailing and the tracking—not yet, and not for a long time, likely. Not while Sebastian still breathed.

Anders didn't fear him; his magic could out-race any arrow loosed from a bow. But what he lacked, and what Sebastian likely had, was coin and influence and numbers. It had been fifteen months since that night in Kirkwall, and now Sebastian was a prince, with all the things that come with the title at his disposal. 

He eventually found the highway again on the far end of the desert, and it hadn't been long before a caravan passed him. He'd put a hex on the driver—nothing crippling or fatal, just something that would buy him enough time to pilfer a few days' supplies. Once far enough away from the highway, he'd allowed himself a full day of rest. He didn't know what lay ahead, further into Tevinter, and if he needed to call upon his magic in any significant way, he would need to be well-fed and rested. His sleep hadn't been easy, with his mind now accustomed to being ever-alert to his surroundings, but it had come at last, and it'd done him some good. 

He wove his way upwards through Tevinter, finding the middle distance between the Imperial Highway and the shores of the Nocen Sea, skirting between the larger towns and the smaller villages that he passed. 

Tevinter would be his safe harbour. There, he would be able to stop running, at least for a little while. He didn't expect charity from the magisters and apprentices there, and nor did he want it. All he wanted was to find place to stop, to rest, without needing to have one eye constantly over his shoulder for predators. Even the hunted had a respite, now and again—a chance to run into a den and lick their wounds. 

And now, he found himself in Asariel. He stopped for two days, knowing that the stretch to Minrathous would be nearly another fortnight at least. 

And that was when he'd made a mistake. That fatal mistake that threatened to bring everything he'd been so careful to construct and maintain crashing down around him, burying him like those he'd laid to rubble in Kirkwall.


	14. Chapter 14

**7 Justinian, 9:38**

"What news?"

The barkeep looked up from the tankard he was wiping dry, eyeing Sebastian under a thick, crooked brow. He was old, grisly and worn, with the hard line of his mouth set in a frown.

"What?" he barked, the corner of his upper lip curling up over his greyed teeth. 

Sebastian cleared his throat. The man's demeanour was nothing that Sebastian hadn't yet seen in Tevinter, but it was still enough to throw him for a moment each time he encountered it. It was difficult to remember that pleasantries apparently had no place here. "Just passing through," he said, putting a rough edge on his voice, "wondering if you'd heard any news that might interest a traveller like myself."

The barkeep scoffed. "Only should you plan on placing a few of those foreign coins on my bar." He spoke the common tongue, though his accent was thick and obscured his words.

"A whiskey, then." Sebastian fished out a few coins, turning slightly away from the barkeep to keep his coin purse from view.

"That will buy you a story or two, though you are in the wrong place if it be excitement that you are after."

Sebastian shook his head. "Nothing like that."

The barkeep pulled a bottle of whiskey down from a shelf and slammed it onto the bar, sending dust flying. He started to wrest the cork free, and then paused partway, looking up at Sebastian under the same gnarled brow. "Where are you from?"

"Wildervale," Sebastian replied, holding the man's eye for a moment. There was very little chance of the man recognising him, should he have been honest, but it wasn't a risk worth taking either way.

"Wildervale."

"In the Free Marches, the western corner."

"Free Marches, yes."

Sebastian watched as the barkeep poured the whiskey into a snifter of old, clouded glass. His hand was quick and rough, and the dark amber liquid sloshed all over, but the man showed no sign of remorse over the lost profit. He filled the snifter nearly to the brim and pushed it towards Sebastian.

"Cheers," Sebastian said, gingerly lifting the snifter to his lips. The whiskey seemed as old as the barkeep, if not older, and well past it's prime years. It burned the inside of his nose before it had even touched his tongue, and it continued to burn the entire way down his throat and into his stomach. A whiskey like that would never have made it past the doors of the castle in Starkhaven, but it would do well to quell the anxiety that had tingled through his veins since Vol Dorma.

"A mage from your lands was here," the barkeep said as he went back to towelling off the same tankard. "A week ago."

"A mage?"

"They say he was of Kirkwall. They say he murdered many people."

Sebastian's blood burned hot, though not for the whiskey anymore, and he took a deep breath. "And what of this mage? What happened to him?"

"Bound, shackled. The Templars took him away."

"The Templars... Why was he arrested?"

The barkeep's shoulders went stiff and he stilled. He glanced around the empty tavern and then leaned slowly towards Sebastian. "He carried writings that spoke of things which are banned by order of the Archon," he whispered. "I cannot say more."

"Do you know where he would have been taken?" Sebastian asked, as the barkeep pulled away.

"Minrathous," the barkeep replied, the 'r' rolling thick on his tongue. "All prisoners go to Minrathous. Most do not leave."

* * *

Knowing now that Anders had been taken to Minrathous, there had been little point to canvassing Asariel as Sebastian had originally planned to do, and so he had spent most of the next day in the inn's tavern, planning the approach to Minrathous and watching for Roslyn.

His nerves buzzed still but it was an keen sort of anxiousness now, as he waited for her. He was eager to move on, knowing that Minrathous was at least week's distance, and that Anders likely would not have long in the hands of the Imperium. 

Roslyn arrived late in the afternoon on Sebastian's second day in Asariel. Sebastian was sitting in the tavern when he saw her down the corridor near the front door. She was craning her neck around a corner, likely looking for the innkeeper that Sebastian hadn't seen since he first arrived at the inn the day before. He rose from his table and moved towards her, calling her name as he approached.

"Sebastian," she said, a warm smile spreading across her face when she turned and saw him. "Hello. Good to see that you've made it here alive."

Sebastian returned the smile and guided her into the tavern. "Thank the Maker for the quiet Tevinter countryside, then. All's well, I trust?"

The smile faded from Roslyn's lips and he could see the line of her jaw harden. She shook her head sharply and turned to face him again. "It's a long story, truthfully, and I'm in desperate need of a proper bath. Have you seen the innkeeper?"

"Not today. Here," he said, pulling the key to his suite from his belt. "There's a proper bath in my suite, you're welcome to it in the meantime. It's the third door on the left, down that corridor there."

Roslyn took the key, her gloved fingers passing slowly over Sebastian's bare ones. She thanked him and headed towards the suite.

She returned a short while later, looking refreshed but not at all relaxed. She was tense as she sat across from him, her mouth still in a frown. He poured her a goblet of wine from the bottle he'd ordered while he waited for her, and she drank from it eagerly, draining the contents in a few pulls. He refilled it again wordlessly, waiting for her to decide to speak.

And she did, near to the end of the second goblet. "It was regarding Anders."

"As you expected," Sebastian said, filling her goblet a third time. He glanced down at his own goblet that he'd not yet emptied, and quickly drank it to try to keep a similar pace.

"Barely." Her voice was quiet, almost weak. "Oberlitz knew of everything."

"You mean in regards to Justice?"

"Everything," she repeated. "Justice, Kirkwall, the Chantry. He knew Anders had once been a Warden under my command, and as he absconded under my command, he holds me responsible for all of it."

"How can that be? Doesn't he know that you've not seen him since he left Amaranthine?"

"Of course, but of course he also knows that we've been in correspondence."

"Your letters were screened?"

Roslyn shrugged, shaking her head. "I don't know. The First Warden knows everything, Sebastian, but by the Makers' bullocks if I know how he does," she said, her tone turning more harsh.

"And what did he ask of you?"

Roslyn let out a heavy sigh. "He regards Anders as a threat to the Order, that the Wardens appear implicitly aligned with him, because I appear explicitly aligned with him. And so in order to demonstrate that that is not, in fact, the case, he wants Anders eliminated." Roslyn let out a heavy sigh. "At my hand."

"Oh, Roslyn, I—"

"He's a disgrace to the Order and he doesn't deserve the honour of the title that he holds," she interjected. "He sits in his fortress—which is more plush and luxurious than most castles in Thedas, I'd wager—and makes these decisions as if he knows what it means to be a Warden. He doesn't, he doesn't know! I've known too many Wardens that have died well before their time in the guardianship of this land and he passes judgement on me and my faction because he's deluded himself to believe that the actions of one man might somehow threaten his position."

Roslyn was livid, her eyes dark and her body tense. She swore and closed her eyes, holding her forehead in her hands. She sat that way for a while, breathing deeply, and when she finally looked up at Sebastian again, her eyes had softened somewhat.

"And so when you refused?"

"I was deposed. Completely, and with immediate effect. I had to name my successor on the spot; I elected Raddick, my Second. He's a good man and eager to serve, and I think he'll do well. The official transfer of title is in my pack. Oberlitz expects it duly signed and returned before the end of Solace."

"You were deposed? Is there no means of appeal that you can seek?"

"To what end? If this is what the Wardens are to be now, I'll have no part of it." Roslyn sighed again, shaking her head. She reached for the bottle of wine and refilled their goblets. "I suppose now there's nothing left for me to do but become a lady of leisure. Perhaps I ought to take lessons from Sofie... I'm sure she'll be just tickled."

Sebastian matched Roslyn's smile, but he knew it was a forced one. He knew her well enough to know that a life of that sort would not suit her, nor, truthfully, would she suit it. It was a coping mechanism, to make light of it all, and he couldn't begrudge her that.

"Anyway," she said pointedly, as if to punctuate the conversation. "Any news of Anders since you've been here?"

Sebastian sighed, nodding on the exhale. "I spoke with the barkeep last night. He'd seen Anders here a week back."

"A week? Then I suppose he's well clear by now."

"He was arrested. Here."

Roslyn's jaw fell. "Arrested! By whom?"

"The barkeep said it was 'Templars,' by which I assume he means the Imperial Templars."

"Maker..."

"We need to reach Minrathous, urgently. I don't imagine the Imperium will hold him for long."

Roslyn nodded. She put a few coins onto the table and swung a leg over the bench. "We'll leave early tomorrow. I'm off to find the innkeeper."

* * *

A short while later there was a knock at the door to Sebastian's suite. He set aside his plotting compass and rose from the desk where he'd laid out his more detailed map of Tevinter. He'd kept the map in his suite, the risk of drawing suspicion by poring over it in the tavern in open view too great. 

"I found the innkeeper," Roslyn said once Sebastian had opened the door. "He was asleep."

Sebastian chuckled. "And?"

"Told me I'd be sleeping on the streets tonight, in not so many words." She smiled at Sebastian and leant a hip against the door frame, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. "At least, I believe that's what he said — my translation of Tevinter has always been spotty at best, but his tone was rather unmistakable."

"Well then," Sebastian said, taking a step back to let Roslyn into the room. "Lucky thing that one of us happened to get here early."

Roslyn moved past Sebastian, stopping just past the antechamber. "If you've a couch or something, that'll do quite well..."

"Now, what sort of prince would I be if I took the large, marginally-comfortable bed and left the lady to sleep on that little settee under the window?"

Roslyn laughed and looked over at Sebastian where he'd stopped next to her. "The same sort as nearly every other prince or king or nobleman I've ever met?"

Sebastian gave Roslyn a half smile. "Precisely," he said, putting a hand to her lower back and giving her a slight push forward. "You're welcome to the bed."

"How honourable you are."

"Lady Meghan Vael raised only the most well-mannered of children, she would have you know." Sebastian moved back to the desk, standing in front of it and turning the map of Tevinter around to face him. "I've done some plotting, and by my guess, the trip to Minrathous should be about seven days," he said, looking over his shoulder at Roslyn.

She frowned a little. "Do you think we've that much time?"

"Anders was captured just over a week ago, so he would have been brought to Minrathous by now, assuming they travelled by horse as well. I would hope we've some time still, but not much, I'm sure."

Roslyn sighed and came to stand beside Sebastian over the map. "Maybe if we push the horses..."

Sebastian straightened and looked at Roslyn. Her face was grim, her brow furrowed tightly. "I'll not give up, Roslyn. We'll move as quickly as we can."

She nodded and turned to face him. Her green eyes had darkened again, the joviality from a few minutes ago now gone from her face. She held his eyes for a moment, and then she glanced down, reaching for his hand. She intertwined their fingers together and gave a slight squeeze.

Something deep in Sebastian's stomach tightened, contracting in on itself instead of flipping over itself as it had in Vol Dorma. He squeezed her hand back and looked at her bowed head, willing her look up at him.

They stood that way for a moment, until Roslyn lifted her head and met his eyes again. She pulled his hand behind her then, pulling him in towards her as she backed up against the edge of the desk, bracing herself with her free hand. She brought his arm around her back, holding his hand there with her own, and she kissed him.

She was gentle at first, but that quickly fell away and she kissed him harder. He reacted instantly and without thinking, leaning into her and kissing her back forcefully. He let go of her hand and drew her against him as she wrapped her arm around his shoulder, her fingernails digging into his skin through the linen of his tunic. She gave a small moan, arching her back and leaving not a hairs' breadth between their chests. 

The sound of her set Sebastian off, sending him into near-frenzy, and he put a thigh between her legs, grinding his hips down into her. Roslyn responded in kind, meeting his hips with her own, and she leaned further down onto the desk, propping herself up on her elbow. She pulled him on top of her, still gripping his shoulder. He kissed along her jaw, following the strong line of it up to the lobe of her ear, pulling it between his teeth when he reached it. Roslyn moaned again, more loudly than a moment ago, and she let go of Sebastian's shoulder, bringing her hand to the back of his head. She carded her fingers through the longer hair there, and she gripped into it slightly when his mouth reached her neck. 

Sebastian moved his mouth across her collarbone, breathing in deeply against Roslyn's skin to catch her scent; she still smelled of the soap from her bath, simple and clean and inviting. 

He brought his free hand up to the neckline of her tunic, slowly unravelling the ties that held it closed. He hooked a finger past the linen, drawing it open, and following soon after with his mouth. He kissed down from the pulse point at the base of her neck, down her chest to rest between her bare breasts, where the smell of her was even stronger. He breathed her in again and moved to hover over the peak of her breast. He laved her nipple, running his tongue over the tip of it and then bringing it into his mouth. 

Roslyn called out Sebastian's name, and it heated his blood as it rushed through him, but it didn't spur him on. Instead, it made him suddenly aware of what he was doing, and he slowed. He pulled his mouth away from Roslyn and pushed himself up off of her as best he could. She looked up at him, her eyes questioning.

He let out a deep breath and leaned down to kiss her softly on the mouth. "It's been... a long time, for me."

Roslyn smiled and let go of Sebastian's hair where she gripped it, bringing her fingers through it again to smooth it down. "For me as well."

"I suspect maybe I've got you bested, though: not since I was exiled."

Roslyn's smile faded as her lips pulled into a silent 'oh.' She drew her hand away from the back of Sebastian's head, running it down the back of his neck and around to rest in the centre of his chest. "If you'd rather we didn't, I understand."

He held her eyes for a moment. He would be able to stop, still, despite his growing hardness; his body was well conditioned to avert temptation, adapted over the years that he'd lived under oath. But as she looked at him, he knew he didn't want to stop. 

He shook his head, bowing it to meet her lips again. "I'd rather we did," he said, against her mouth.

Roslyn laughed for a beat and kissed him back. She ran her tongue along the meeting of his lips and then delved inside when he opened his mouth to her. Their kiss was less frantic now, replaced with something deep and slow. She ran her hand across his chest, down his side and around his back to his ass. She squeezed the muscle there, and then slid her hand forward between their stomachs. 

Sebastian's breath caught in his throat as she palmed him through his breeches, his mouth hanging open slightly against hers. He shut his eyes against the hot wave of pleasure that coursed through him, and she kissed him again gently. She unbuckled his belt, pushing it to the floor and working on the closure of his breeches. Her fingers passed through the soft hair that lead down into his smalls and she gently stroked upwards along the underside of his cock. He let out a deep groan at her touch, his forehead falling forward to rest in the crook of her neck. 

She wrapped her fingers around him loosely, drawing her hand up slowly, then down, and tightening her grip as she repeated the motion.

"Maker..." Sebastian moaned, his eyes still shut, and he could feel the damp warmth of his own breath on his lips as it was trapped against Roslyn's skin.

She angled her head down to kiss Sebastian's shoulder, biting his skin lightly. She continued to stroke him, quickening her pace, and Sebastian bucked his hips against her, suddenly desperate to be consumed by her. She ran her thumb around the head of his cock, back and forth over the slit there, and Sebastian groaned again, something tight in his chest as he drove his hips into her again, matching the rhythm of her hand.

"Roslyn, Maker, I can't hold—"

Roslyn shushed him and kissed his shoulder again, slowing her movements. She then drew her hand from his smalls and pushed against his chest. "The bed," she said quietly.

Sebastian nodded into her neck and pushed himself away from her. His legs felt weak and his cock throbbed when he looked down at Roslyn laid out on the desk, her tunic still skewed to the side from when he'd kissed her breast. She followed him, pushing herself to standing, and he started to reach for her, to undress her but she was quicker than he was and she pulled her tunic over her head in one movement. He followed suit, removing his own tunic and pulling his breeches and smalls down and away, watching as she slowly slid out of her leggings.

Naked, she moved in front of him and pushed him against the bed, crawling after him as he pulled himself back towards the pillows at the head of it. She wasted no time, straddling his hips as he laid back.

Sebastian lay there for a moment, looking at Roslyn as she sat atop him. He throbbed again, the heat of her holding him down against his belly. He hesitated, his hands rigid on the outsides of her thighs; he wanted to reach for the rest of her, to touch all of her, but the act of it gave him pause. She smiled at him and then took one of his hands, lifting the tips of his fingers to her mouth; she kissed them, grinding her hips down against him as she did, holding his eye all the while. He felt another twinge of pleasure and he dug the fingers of his free hand into her thigh in reaction to it. She brought the hand she held to one of her breasts, holding it there for a moment before placing both palms on his chest. 

Sebastian's hesitation melted away and he began to knead her flesh, passing the calloused edge of his thumb over Roslyn's nipple, back and forth, and she gasped. She closed her eyes and rocked her hips slowly, her fingertips digging into his skin. She broke her rhythm after a moment, bracing forward and guiding Sebastian into her. 

She leaned back, sinking down around him, and he cried out, something guttural and deep. It was a sensation he'd never forgotten, but it was one that he'd not let himself think on beyond his first year in the Chantry. Roslyn was warm and soft, and he relished it, stilling himself to focus on the feeling of her for a moment.

Until she began to rock her hips again. He gripped her thigh again, following her movements; she was steady, building speed but not yet frantic. He found it intoxicating, concentrating on her rhythm, and before long he was lost in it, lifting his hips to meet hers. 

Roslyn let out a sigh and leant forward, resting her elbows on either side of Sebastian's head, and she kissed him again. Her mouth was gentle, but the moment their lips touched, he grew eager and he kissed her harder, bringing a hand to the back of her head and gripping into her dark hair.

He felt wholly surrounded by her; she was all he could hear, and smell, and feel. Her breath came hard through her nose as they kissed; the clean scent of her washed over him as her hair fell forward; and her muscles began to contract around him, pulling him into her deeper still. It was exactly as he remembered it to be, but then it wasn't—he was consumed with the carnality of it, to be sure, but he felt overwhelmed by something else. Something he'd not felt in his youth, when he was in the same exact spot with another person. He'd known since that night after the bandit attack between the Silent Plains and Vol Dorma that he cared for Roslyn, but he began to realise now that what he felt for her was maybe something closer to love.

She broke their kiss then, gasping against his mouth and moaning on the exhale. She tightened around him again and he knew she was close. He brought an arm around her shoulders and held her close to his chest, needing to feel as much of her against him as possible. He bucked his hips harder, his ass lifting off the mattress as he thrusted.

"M-Maker, Sebastian, I—" she whispered into his cheek, her hot breath curling over his ear, punctuated by another moan. She tightened again, once, then twice, and she stilled, riding out her orgasm against his hard thrusts.

The sound of her as she climaxed, so close to his ear, was all it took to finish him, and he came with a harsh groan and a last buck of his hips.

When Sebastian was spent, Roslyn moved off of him, lying full length along his side and resting her head on his chest. She began to draw slow circles through the hair below his navel with her fingertip, and he wrapped an arm around her, holding her close against him. Sleep soon took over Roslyn, but Sebastian laid awake, listening to the steady rhythm of her breath and dreading the morning.


	15. Chapter 15

**15 Justinian, 9:38**

Sebastian and Roslyn reached Minrathous five days after leaving Asariel. They rode their horses as fast as they could, to the point of near-exhaustion, for upwards of eight hours each day instead of the customary six and stopping only during the darkest hours of the night.

It was mid-morning when they approached the main gate of Minrathous, at the southern end of the city, but the surrounding area was unexpectedly quiet. In other large towns, the entrance would be teeming with migrants and beggars, guards to mind them, and merchants to extort them. But here, there stood only a pair of Imperial Templars on either side of the gate. They were larger than any Templar Sebastian had seen in the rest of Thedas, with spiked pauldrons that extended well beyond where their shoulders could reasonably have ended, and both wielded battleaxes with blades larger than their torsos.

The main gate was constructed of three massive golems of dark stone, with the thick iron bars of the gate extending between the two that stood on the outer edge to connect to the one that stood in the middle. They were nearly three times the size of any of the golems he'd seen in the Deep Roads in Kirkwall.

"I've heard of these," Roslyn said, craning her neck to take in the full height of the golems. "The Juggernauts, I believe they're called. Gifted to the Imperium by one of the dwarven kingdoms, however long ago."

"An odd alliance."

"Lyrium," Roslyn said as she pulled ahead and began to lead her horse closer to the gate. "A society so dependent on magic would require an awful lot of it too, and I'd wager that the size of the golems attests to that."

Sebastian nodded, following after Roslyn. "Terrifying creatures."

Roslyn looked over her shoulder and gave Sebastian a half-smile. "Which, dwarves or golems?"

"Golems," Sebastian replied, chuckling. "At least as far as I'm concerned; I've met only the nicest of dwarves, save for one or two."

"Mmm, lucky you. Some golems are actually rather benevolent, I've found. Unless, that is, you happen to be of the avian variety."

"What?"

Roslyn laughed and shook her head. "Nothing, it's... kind of a long story, actually."

They approached the gate where they were halted by one of the Templars. Sebastian hadn't planned on needing to bypass guards in order to enter the city, and he panicked briefly when the Templar raised his large, metal palm to them. They had no legitimate reason for being in Minrathous, as far as the Templar would be concerned, and Tevinter was far from the sort of place one might travel to for leisure. 

The Templar eyed them closely, first Sebastian and then Roslyn for a moment longer, but Sebastian had noticed that the Templar's eyes fell only on Sebastian's chest and not his face. Glancing down at himself and seeing the golden trim of his armour glint in the sunlight, he knew how to earn their entrance to the city.

And sure enough, a few minutes and fifteen pieces of gold later, they were off down the long road that led into the centre of the city. The road was lined with tall trees and bushes that seemed to have once been well-manicured but were now appeared to be one more winter away from death. At the end of the vegetation, they came upon what was clearly the poorest area of the town, with small, worn shops and an inn with a sparsely-patched roof. They continued along the main road that was now lined with packed-in apartments in poor condition. The road began to lead downhill and as they crested over it, they could see a large market square, with the Chantry directly behind. 

The Chantry was the largest building they'd come across so far, but it wasn't nearly as large as Sebastian had expected it to be; it was a fraction of the size of that in Val Royeaux. But then, just beyond the Chantry stood the massive, broad tower of the Tevinter Circle. It dwarfed the Chantry, and that was as good an affirmation of the hierarchy of the Imperium as Sebastian needed.

He was instantly reminded of Threnodies, of how it described the Golden City as the most spectacular place one might ever hope to set their eyes upon.

_Then in the centre of heaven_  
 _He called forth_  
 _A city with towers of gold,_  
 _streets with music for cobblestones,  
_ _And banners which flew without wind._

It was clear, looking down over it now, that Minrathous had once been a proud city. Every building was constructed of white stone that, when clean, likely shone blindingly in the sun. Now, though, everything was coated in thick layers of dirt and mould, staining the sides of the buildings like a patchwork of bruises. Large swaths of black fabric with gilded trim and accents adorned many of the largest buildings, and the figure of a hooded ferryman, which Sebastian recognised as the seal of the Archon, was visible in every direction.

The market square held the first signs of life that Sebastian and Roslyn had encountered once past the main gate, but it was life in the most superficial of terms. People shuffled to and fro, their faces drawn and sallow, and their eyes fixed firmly on the ground in front of them. Their conversations were quiet, held in hushed voices, and there were none of the hallmarks of a typical market square—no buskers or performers seeking coin, no urchins running underfoot, no loud-mouthed merchants trying to attract people to their stalls. It was eerie, and it set Sebastian on edge.


	16. Chapter 16

**14 Justinian, 9:38**

Anders didn’t know how long he’d been held. It was 30 Bloomingtide on the night he was captured, and they had left early the next morning. He had anticipated the walk to Minrathous to take roughly a fortnight by foot, but the Imperial Templars travelled by horse so the pace had been quicker. But there was no means of tracking time now.

What did it matter? Anders well knew that captivity precluded any need to know the day of the month, or the hour of the day. Life in solitary confinement was dictated by the times that the cell door was opened. 

In the Circle, it was opened to either deliver food, or to deliver the Templars’ entertainment for the day. The one had been unpleasant, but necessary; while the other had been unpleasant, and unnecessary, but bearable.

Now, wherever he was, it was nothing if not unbearable. The cell door hadn’t opened since he had come to consciousness, however long ago that had been. A plate with a white, cold porridge had been passed unceremoniously under the door three times. The porridge had been piled too high and had been scraped off the top as the plate passed through the space. He couldn’t even hear footsteps approaching to signal the delivery of the food; his only clue was the scraping of the metal plate across the rough stone floor. 

He ate, because he had to; for survival, for dignity. He wondered to himself over and over whether he deserved either but, for the time being, both were within reach and so he reached for them. 

It was different from when he had been in a cell in the Circle, in Ferelden. There, it was something he had to endure, something that he knew would end within its time, and then he would walk free, thumbing his nose at the Templars at the last possible moment. There, he could sit and think of other means of escape, building upon his mistakes from the last time. 

There would be no end now. 

His mistake had been being recognised. He had let himself feel too safe too quickly and he’d left himself exposed. It was laziness, but it was naiveté too. He was tired; tired of hiding, tired of running. And Tevinter had seemed like the light at the end of the tunnel. It had seemed a place of acceptance and understanding, somewhere that he could retreat to.

What it was, in actuality, was a place of suspicion and presumption and self-preservation. Compared to the rest of Thedas, the mages in Tevinter had a modicum of freedom, but only insofar as the magisters would allow. He was coming to understand this now. The Tevinter Circle was no different to every other Circle, save for the superficial appearance. 

Anders didn’t know if that’s where he was being held now, in the Circle. A magister’s apprentice, travelling with the Imperial Templars, had put him under a powerful sleeping hex while they were still at the outskirts of Minrathous. The location of his cell didn’t matter; all that mattered was that all he had done, all he had fought for, and lost, was now for naught.

Two more plates of porridge came, perhaps a day between each of them, and then finally the cell door opened. A tall, broad Templar stood in the door, and Anders couldn’t tell where the Templar’s pauldrons ended and the space beyond the door began. There was distant light in the corridor, but all Anders had known for days on end was the light of a single large candle that hung on the wall of his cell, and the light outside his cell door made him squint.

The Templar entered the cell and dragged Anders to standing by his upper arm, and his legs felt weak. He had walked small circles around the cell now and then, but it hadn’t been enough to keep the muscles limber.

Once out in the hallway, Anders saw the same apprentice that had been present for his capture. She sneered at him, watching as the templar locked a set of irons around Anders' wrists behind his back.

"I hope you had a good rest, foreigner, for it shall be one of your last," the apprentice said, pulling out a black hood from inside her robes.

Her voice was flat, cold, unfeeling, but Anders barely heard her. Instead he bowed his head, waiting to be enveloped in darkness again.

* * *

When the hood was finally removed, Anders found himself in the centre of a large room. The high ceiling was domed and ornate with gold accents. Every surface, from the floor to the walls, was shining white marble, pristine and without a single vein of colour running through it. He dared not turn his head to see what lay behind him, but in front of him was a tall, black marble ledge that curved along a full third of the room. Behind sat ten magisters: seven men, three women. They all wore black robes, with strong shoulders and feathered accents. Their faces were stoic, each one staring at him with flat, expressionless eyes. 

He had heard of this—it had to be the Senate, the centre of Imperium governance. And he realised at that moment that he was to be charged, and likely sentenced. It was futile to feel anxiety over it; the outcome had been decided the moment he was taken into custody back in Asariel. And yet, he felt his pulse quicken at the thought all the same. He’d lived most of his life in shackles, and his first instinct was always to devise a way out. Now was no different, same as it had been when he first came to in his cell however many days ago, but the sight of those magisters put his nerves on edge.

A moment later, a set of double doors at the head of the room swung open. A man passed through, walking slowly, gracefully towards the chair that sat empty between the ten members of the Senate. Archon Carisius. He was one of the tallest men Anders had ever seen, but it was hard to know how much of his height was an illusion of his outfit. He wore black robes like the other magisters, but his had gold piping and gold clasps down the centre. There were white feathers along the collar, and he wore a headdress, something tall that came to two points on either side. 

Carisius stood before his chair for a moment, staring down his long nose at Anders, and Anders felt the Veil shift around him. It was similar to when a mage was about to call on their mana, but there was a different tinge to it now—like something had been reserved. A posturing, maybe, or a warning. Whatever Carisius had done, it made the hair along the back of Anders' neck stand up.

Carisius sat then, folding his hands in front of him on top of the ledge. He turned his head slightly to his left, not taking his eyes off Anders, and then the magister on Carisius's left rose, unfurling a roll of parchment.

The magister cleared his throat and began reading. He spoke in the common tongue, which Anders knew had to be for his benefit, and it surprised him. 

"Before the Senate of the Great Imperium of Tevinter, on this the 14th Ferventis of the 38th year of the Dragon Age, stands the accused, known only by the name of Anders. He, formerly of Kirkwall, formerly of Ferelden, is the individual solely responsible for the destruction of the Chantry in Kirkwall in the month of Nubulis of the 37th year of the Dragon Age, which resulted in the massacre of the mages of the Circle of Magi in Kirkwall under the prescription of the Rite of Annulment as ordered by the late Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard. The accused was captured as an interloper within the Imperium on 30th Molioris of the 38th year of the Dragon Age. On his person at the time of his capture in Asariel, the accused carried writings containing inciting language, including but not limited to the abolition of the Circles of Magi within Thedas. In addition, the accused carried on his person maps of the Great Imperium and of Minrathous. The latter included handwritten demarcations of entrances to the network of tunnels underneath Minrathous, which are property of the Great Imperium and as such are unknown to the citizenry at large of the Great Imperium. Following capture, the accused has since been held in solitary confinement within the Imperial Chantry, per the proscribed procedures heretofore laid out in the Constitution of the Great Imperium of Tevinter."

A searing coil of heat wound in upon itself in Anders' gut. The tunnel entrances. They had been marked on the map already when he'd acquired it. It was a second-hand thing, traded with a merchant in exchange for a cursory healing spell over a rash of gout. He'd noticed the markings at the time but had paid them no heed—he'd no use for them, and the map was still serviceable despite them. He'd known, when the Imperial Templars arrested him and confiscated his belongings, that the revised and expanded manifesto that he carried would raise suspicion; however, as he'd made clear distinctions to the Chantry under the realm of the Divine, he thought it would be known to whichever magister ended up reviewing them that he made no reference to the Imperial Chantry. But the maps... he had forgotten about them until hearing the magister read the statement.

"And, First Magister Verus, what then is the charge against the accused?" The Archon's voice was crisp, cold and with inflection beyond a hint of boredom.

"The Senate has found the accused, known only by the name of Anders, guilty of possessing materials intended to incite rebellion and dissension against the Great Imperium of Tevinter. Thus, given the nature of these materials coupled with the accused's known and confirmed role in the instigation of rebellion in another realm within Thedas, the Senate hereby levies the charge of sedition."

Sedition. The word hung in Anders' ears, and he heard it over and over again. Sedition. He wanted to shout, to explain, to defend himself but the words didn't come, and likely for the better. He knew that speaking out now would do him no favours.

Carisius nodded and stood, as the First Magister sat down again. "The penalty for the charge of sedition, as proscribed by the Constitution of the Great Imperium of Tevinter is death by public execution, to be carried out in the courtyard of the Imperial Chantry in the city of Minrathous on 16th Ferventis of the 38th year of the Dragon Age."

A violent ringing set off in Anders head, drowning out the end of the Archon's sentence and he could feel the Veil shift around him again, this time as his own consciousness began to draw on mana. 

"NO!" he yelled, unable to hold his silence, as the familiar crackle of electricity began to shock through his system and he felt the loss of control grow stronger and stronger. His arms struggled to tear free of the irons that held his hands behind his back—he wanted to cast or to lash out or to tear at his hair, his face, whatever his fingertips could reach.

But, just as the surge of power reached a climax within him, an invisible force knocked into him head-on, something warm and stinging and then his eyes rolled back into his head and it all went dark.


	17. Chapter 17

**15 Justinian, 9:38**

"Sebastian!"

Sebastian heard his name ring out from somewhere to his right. He looked up and saw Roslyn standing along the far edge of the market square, waving at him frantically. She opened her mouth, likely to shout his name again, so he held a hand up to signal her to stop. They couldn't afford to draw attention to themselves, not in the centre of Minrathous where they very obviously didn't belong.

He jogged across the market towards her, slowing to weave between clusters of people gathered in front of stalls. 

Roslyn ran to meet him a few feet ahead of where she stood, and she grabbed his arm, dragging him towards the wall of a building. "Sebastian, look! Look at this poster!"

Sebastian stood perpendicular to the poster, turning his head to look at it rather than face it with his whole body. If they were being watched, both of them being so interested in the same thing would be a cause for alarm. Roslyn seemed to understand then, because she turned her back to him and pretended to be looking off in the distance at the north-eastern corner of the market.

The poster was obviously new, with crisp, clean edges and sharp ink. The large, bold script was all written in Arcanum, but a common tongue translation had been included in smaller print at the bottom. He squinted and leaned in slightly to be able to read it.

Attention all citizens of the Great Imperium of Tevinter. Be advised that the Senate under the guidance of Archon Carisius have apprehended a violent, unstable man from the Other Realms who has interloped into the Great Imperium with the sole and direct purpose of inciting rebellion and subversion in Minrathous and beyond. The usurper has been charged with the act of sedition and is to be executed by public beheading in the courtyard of the Imperial Chantry in Minrathous on 16th Ferventis of the 38th Year of the Dragon Age.

Sebastian drew away from the poster and moved next to Roslyn, whispering a summary of the notice to her.

"No," she gasped, turning to him suddenly. "Anders; they're going to kill him."

Sebastian nodded and took a deep breath. "But it may not be him. The proclamation makes no direct reference to him, or anything that sounds like it could be him. It just calls him a man from the 'other' realms."

Roslyn levelled her eyes at Sebastian, staring at him pointedly. "We know he was captured by Imperial Templars. That innkeeper said all prisoners are held in Minrathous, so we know he must be here."

"But sedition? That seems a very rash judgment."

"Don’t be so naive, Sebastian. The Archon is not a benevolent man, and I’m rather sure the Tevinter Senate's trials are hardly fair and balanced. Perhaps they know what he did in Kirkwall?"

"But what could they gain by killing him?"

"It's not a matter of gaining anything! It’s a matter of protecting their status quo."

Sebastian shook his head and walked further into the market, Roslyn trailing closely behind. "We need to continue looking for him," he said over his shoulder to her. "We can't assume that Anders is the one they've charged, not yet."

"But what if it is, Sebastian? What then? We make no efforts to try to free him? The execution is tomorrow, we've not got much time!"

"Roslyn, listen to yourself. We've been in Minrathous less than a day. We know nothing of the layout of the city beyond what my map tells us, we've no idea where they might even be keeping him, let alone what it would take to reach him. This is a city of magisters—they could vaporise us where we stood without so much as a glance. We need to keep a level head, and work with what we can. We'll canvas the city more. Speak with the urchins, ask questions. Surely someone will know where the magisters hold their prisoners."

Roslyn sighed and ran a hand through her hair. She was angry, Sebastian could tell, but it would do neither of them, or Anders, any good to rush headlong into a rescue effort without knowing what they would face.

"Fine," she bit out finally. "Fine. We’ll do it your way."

"I’ll continue north and scout beyond the market and towards the Chantry. You move east-west from here and circle back south to the gates. We’ll meet back at the inn after dark." Roslyn nodded once and turned on her heel away from him. "Roslyn," he called to her, and she turned for a moment to face him. "Be discreet. And be careful."

* * *

Sebastian had remained in the market square after separating from Roslyn, hoping to overhear any sort of news of Anders. After nearly an hour of slowly strolling between stalls, he saw a Templar approach a grocer. He was the first Templar that Sebastian had seen since passing through the city's main gates, so he approached, pretending to be interested in the vegetables that the grocer had on offer.

The grocer and the Templar spoke in Arcanum, and Sebastian struggled to understand anything that they said. When he was a boy, it had been considered sacrilegious to know the language—the language of heathens and heretics, his mother had called it. And so he had been schooled in Orlesian and Antivan, but not Arcanum. He had learned a few key phrases in the year that he had held the seat of Starkhaven, but understanding how to say 'import levy' would be of no help now. Still, he listened, and he was rewarded when he heard the Templar say 'Kirkwall' in the common tongue. He watched the Templar reach for a handful of dates out of the corner of his eye, and when the Templar turned away, Sebastian waited a moment and then followed after him.

The Templar headed in the direction of the Chantry, walking slowly and eating the dates. When he reached the bottom of the steps to the Chantry, Sebastian stopped and waited, watching the Templar ascend the stairs and pass through the large black wooden doors at the top. 

Sebastian knew that the Templar could have made reference to Kirkwall for a number of reasons, but as time was quickly ravelling out from underneath him, he knew it was as good a lead as any he might uncover.

He headed up the stairs of the Chantry and through the doors after waiting a moment longer. It was dark and cold inside, and in complete contrast to the warm and inviting Chantries that he had known in the rest of Thedas. He saw no Sisters, only Brothers, all dressed in heavy black robes with single white panels bearing golden embossed symbols of the Tevinter Chantry down their fronts. The layout seemed to be oddly similar to that of the Kirkwall Chantry, with a large rectangular nave in the centre and several corridors branching off on either side. 

Sebastian drew the attention of several Brothers as he stood near the entrance. They looked up from their huddled groups of twos and threes, following him closely with their eyes as he slowly moved further into the nave. None approached, however, so he continued. He walked over to the western side of the nave, pretending to examine the few worn tapestries that hung along it. They depicted a city of white, though the aged thread gave it a tinge of yellow, set against red skies and a black sun. Truthfully, he found them fascinating, and were he there under other, less pressing circumstances, he would have taken the time to study them in more detail. Yet, he could feel the weight of the Brothers' eyes on his back, so he continued moving along the wall.

The northwestern corner of the nave was darker still, untouched by torchlight. It hid the mouth of a corridor, empty and lit only by a single candle a few feet inwards. Sebastian quickly looked behind him, to be sure there were no Brothers or Templars immediately nearby, and then he moved down the corridor. 

As he walked slowly forward, he reached into one of the pouches on his belt and pulled out a set of lockpicks. It had been a long while since he had needed to use them but he carried them all the same, and he hoped that he remembered how to still use them. 

There was a large metal door at the end of the corridor. As he moved towards it, he checked the latches on a few of the more simple wooden doors that lined the corridor, though none were unlocked. When he reached the metal door, he put an ear flush against it to listen for any noise coming from the opposite side. Hearing nothing, he crouched down in front of the keyhole and looked inside to see whether any mechanisms of the lock were visible. The corridor was too poorly-lit to tell, but given the size of the door, the required key would need to be proportionately large, so he reached for the last lockpick on the ring. 

As he worked the pick in the keyhole, he could hear the subtle grinding of metal against metal and the click of one segment of the lock mechanism. He reached for a slightly smaller pick, but just as he was about to work on the lock's release, he heard hushed voices approaching the far end of the corridor, in the direction of the nave. He slowly retracted his lockpicks, careful not to let them make any noise as they withdrew from the keyhole and wrapped the ring of picks tightly in his leather glove. Just as he rose to standing and turned around, a Templar and a Brother entered the corridor.

Sebastian moved in the direction of the nave, smiling widely at the pair as he approached them. He saw the Templar whisper something quickly to the Brother and then he pulled ahead, taking broad steps towards Sebastian. 

The Templar spoke to him in Arcanum, but the pointed tone of his voice was enough translation for Sebastian. He smiled again and rose his hands, quickly sliding the lockpicks back into his belt as his hand passed by, and showed his palms to the Templar.

"Please excuse me, Ser Knight—I'm looking for your library," he said, over-enunciating his words. The Templar quirked an eyebrow at him and was silent for a brief moment, until he began speaking in Arcanum again, his voice a notch louder. "No, no," Sebastian continued. "Library? Such as with scriptures and scrolls?" He pretended to open a book and turn a few pages. 

It was futile, he knew; the Templar would neither know, nor care, what he meant, but the diversion afforded him enough time to continue moving slowly towards the entrance of the corridor.

Once in the nave again, Sebastian scanned the opposite, eastern wall; it looked identical to the western wall, and there was likely to be another door worth investigating, but as the Templar's voice had carried down the corridor and out into the open space of the nave, even more Brothers had their eyes on Sebastian. He took a few cautious steps towards the centre of the nave, and as he walked, he could see at least two Brothers match his movements. It was clear to him then that he'd not be able to move to any part of the Chantry without being observed, and he decided that it was best to leave, lest he be stopped again.

After exiting the Chantry, he had moved behind it in the direction of the Circle, but the number of Templars in the area increased exponentially as he grew closer and closer. He passed as close to the entrance of the Circle as he dared, but every Templar he saw had their eyes trained on him, and so he retreated quickly.

By time he had returned to the inn, it was late in the night, several hours after dark. He found Roslyn in the dining hall of the inn; they ate together quickly, but their mutual silence was proof enough that both had been unsuccessful in finding any information as to where Anders was being held. They retired to their suite after a shared flagon of wine, and, same as they had every night since Asariel, they made love; but it was tense and desperate, not slow and gentle as it had been before. A sense of unease had settled deep into Sebastian's core at some point between returning to the inn and turning away from Roslyn in the dark of their bed and he knew it would keep him awake, likely until morning.


	18. Chapter 18

**16 Justinian, 9:38**

It rained the next day. Hard drops battered against the cloudy window of Sebastian and Roslyn's suite, and they'd have woken him up, if he'd been able to fall asleep the night before. It had been a long night, thoughts of what he could have done differently, or otherwise, or instead, ruminating in his head until it was nearly torturous and he was considering whether he'd gone mad.

At midmorning, he and Roslyn headed into the city. The rain went coursing through the dirty streets, sending rivulets of diluted mud racing down ahead of them. There was a strong wind, blowing south through the city and against their faces, carrying the rain with it. The city was bustling already, with people moving in the same direction down the main streets to gather and cluster together at the market and the Chantry courtyard just beyond it, as though they were being carried forth by the rainwater itself. 

Vendors at the market had begun setting up their stalls, but they moved slowly, distractedly. They would open one trunk or lay out one item and then pause, stopping to turn and look towards the Chantry. They would crane their necks and lean over to whisper to one another, and then turn back to their stalls, only to repeat the act over again a few minutes later.

The energy was palpable, but Sebastian couldn't pinpoint exactly what sort of energy it was. Anxious, yes... but not nervous. Anticipating, almost eager. It was strange, to see how animatedly people spoke to each other, staking a location around the main square as though they were readying to watch a performance. Strange, and unsettling, given how dour they had been the day before.

He could see that Roslyn felt much the same. Her eyebrows had been furrowed to the same point just above the bridge of her nose since they had left the inn, and now, as they slowly, reluctantly joined the gathering crowd, her mouth had twisted into a deep frown. 

She looked over at Sebastian once they'd stopped walking, her face worried. "I don't... should we be here? For this?"

Sebastian sighed, holding her eyes for a moment before looking ahead to the square. Truthfully, he wanted to be anywhere else. For all of his protestation the day before, after discovering the poster in the market, he knew Roslyn had been right. They had only been in Minrathous a day, but it was clear to him already that foreigners were severely unwelcome. And a foreigner that had any kind of damning evidence stacked against him was sure to be treated with more than just hostile glares.

"We need to be here," he said finally. "If this is... what we think it is, then it's our duty to be here."

Roslyn nodded and wrapped her arms around herself. The din of the crowd was pitching up as more and more people gathered. Sebastian began to pray that they would quiet, but he honestly wondered whether they would possess the dignity to do so.

But, a moment later, the crowd did quiet, as a pal fell over them. Sebastian looked at Roslyn, at the same time she turned to look at him, and then they both looked ahead to the Chantry steps. Two Templars had passed through the black wooden doors, standing on either side. 

For several minutes, the Templars stood, eyes forward, and the crowd watched the Chantry doors with an anxious silence.

And then they grew even quieter still, as though none dared to even breathe audibly. The Chantry doors opened again, and a tall, thin man in flowing black robes came forth. His robes were adorned in gold, and he wore a headdress that added nearly a foot to his height itself. His face was gaunt, with large bird-like features, and he looked down at the crowd as a bird might watch its prey.

Carisius moved forward, taking a few gliding steps until he reached the top stair. He swept his eyes over the crowd slowly, from left to right, and then he spoke.

But he spoke only in Arcanum. There was no translation, and he spoke in such a way that would surely be indiscernible to even the most educated scholars. Roslyn turned to look at Sebastian for a translation, her eyes panicked and questioning and he shook his head in answer. Her bottom lip quivered, and then she faced forward again.

The Archon spoke for several minutes, his voice growing more angry and passionate as he continued, and the crowd matched his fervour eagerly. When the Archon finished, there was no cheering or clapping, but there was an eruption of fevered whispering that Sebastian might have been able to understand small parts of, but he didn't bother to try. He didn't care to know what things the Archon had said that excited them so.

Sebastian was reminded again of Threnodies, of the verses that spoke of the Maker addressing his first children, and the reverence they held for Him. To think of the Archon as some sort of equivalent of the Maker was blasphemous, to be sure, but the parallels were there all the same, twisted and black and wrong. 

_Then the Voice of the Maker rang out,_  
 _The first Word,_  
 _And His Word became all that might be;_  
 _Dream and idea, hope and fear,_  
 _Endless possibilities._  
 _And from it made his firstborn._  
 _And he said to them:_  
 _In My image I forge you,_  
 _To you I give dominion_  
 _Over all that exists._  
 _By your will  
_ _May all things be done._

He was stood in the centre of Minrathous, the city that had been both Golden and Blackened, watching the Archon set his adherents to fervour, and felt terrified. For what had happened, to bring him and Roslyn, and Anders, to that point; and for what was to come.

Then, Carisius moved to one side, sweeping his long robes dramatically behind him, and he signalled to the Templars still standing aside the Chantry doors. They both reached for the handles, swinging the doors wide at the same time.

And then there he was. Still as tall as Sebastian remembered but so frail and emaciated that he looked to be a fraction of the size he'd been in Kirkwall. The tattered tunic he wore hung off his frame, open wide down the front, exposing a concave to his chest. His hair was long, falling nearly past his shoulders in limp clumps, and it looked as though it hadn't been washed in months. His eyes were downcast, focusing on the floor or his feet or anything except the crowd before him. He was being led by a hulking man swathed in several layers of black cloth, with a hood that hung low over his face.

The executioner pushed Anders forward, down the Chantry steps, with the Archon following behind. As they moved, someone emerged from the crowd carrying a stone block with a curve in the middle, and he set it down in the centre of the courtyard. 

A wave of nausea washed over Sebastian as he watched the scene unfold before him. He tore his eyes off Anders to glance down at Roslyn. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, and her cheeks were bright red. He knew she was crying, but she did it silently.

When Sebastian looked back towards the courtyard, Anders was staring at him, and Sebastian felt a pang of shame and remorse at his core when their eyes met. He knew Anders was seeing him and not a faceless person in the gathered crowd, because there was a recognition there, an acknowledgement. Beyond that, though, Anders eyes were flat, his face expressionless. There was none of the customary vigour that Sebastian had known him to have, before. There was no passion, no life; no pride or guilt or sadness. And that unsettled Sebastian more than anything he'd seen to that point that day. 

He wanted to convey to Anders, somehow, that he was in the crowd not as one of the sickeningly eager, pleased observers, but as a mourner. That, despite everything that had transpired between them, and for all that Sebastian had sworn he would do in retribution, he was regretful of this outcome. It wasn't a forgiveness; that was something that would be forever outside of Sebastian’s grasp, no matter how much reflection he gave the subject. But it was an acceptance.

_By My Will alone is Balance sundered  
_ _And the world given new life_

That tense, careful balance that had existed between Anders and Sebastian for years, when they were still in Kirkwall. It had been upset long before this moment, but it wasn't until this moment that Sebastian felt he could truly look beyond what Anders had wrought. But what could he do? He couldn't call out or raise a hand—such gestures would be dangerous, given the temper of the crowd. All he could do was continue to hold Anders eye, unblinking and unflinching, until the executioner brought him before the block. And then he nodded at Anders, because it was the most visible and yet still discreet action he could think to do. It was inadequate, still, and Sebastian knew even in that moment that it was something he would grapple with for a long time to come, and possibly forever.

The executioner positioned Anders before the block, pressing down onto his shoulder to make him kneel, which Anders did without resistance. And then Anders bent forward, resting his head into the curve of the block, his face towards the crowd. The executioner took a step back and drew a broadsword from his robes, turning it lazily in his gloved hand once, twice, as Archon name stepped forward to stand on the other side of the block, across from the executioner. He faced Anders and spoke in Arcanum again, his voice flat and quiet, barely audible even over the silent crowd.

After the Archon spoke, he took a step backwards, folding his arms behind his back. He looked up at the executioner, who lifted his blade again, the underside directly above Anders' neck, and he steadied it in his hand, his eyes trained on the Archon as he waited for the signal. Anders closed his eyes and pressed his lips together in a thin line, and it was the most movement Sebastian had seen of him since he had appeared through the Chantry doors, aside from the shuffle of his feet down the steps. 

Roslyn shifted closer to Sebastian and turned her face into his shoulder, and he could feel her hot tears cut through the fabric of his tunic, stark against the icy cold of the rain. Sebastian, however, kept his eyes forward, because he owed Anders that much; a sort of dignity, and respect.

The Archon nodded then, and the executioner swung his blade upwards and then down in one swift movement. The crowd gasped as the metal clanged against the stone paving, and Sebastian lifted his face to the sky, closing his eyes and wishing that the rain felt like more of an absolution as it washed over his face.

_And as the black clouds came upon them,_  
 _They looked on what pride had wrought,  
_ _And despaired._

Pride. Anders had had pride, a year ago. Pride in what he was, what he valued, what he saw as the means to pull mages out from under the thumb of the Circle. Sebastian had been prideful too, he well knew, but he didn't feel any of it now. How could he? Humanity had failed the Maker, it was clear to him now. Seeing what Anders had felt driven to be and to do, at the hands of a Chantry and a Divine that refused to listen to any word but their own at the expense of innocent lives, of mages and clerics alike. And as he and Roslyn turned away, Sebastian made a silent promise to Anders that he knew Thedas needed to change, and that he needed to do something—anything—to make Anders' death not have been in vain.


End file.
